


The Bound Man

by jury



Series: The Bound Man [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Banter, Biting, Choking, Enemies to Lovers, Healing, Huddling For Warmth, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, M/M, Magic, Rimming, Roadtrip, S&M, Soul Bond, Spanking, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-10 18:35:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 60,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20532680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jury/pseuds/jury
Summary: Rhahat withdrew his hand hastily, sending the chain between them shivering. Yaniv snapped his wrist, moving Rhahat's arm; Rhahat glared up at him."Don't think I'm enjoying this any more than you are," he said."It's a nice change from marching," Yaniv said, just to watch Rhahat narrow his eyes."I can see you have a mind for marching," Rhahat said, tart.Trapped behind enemy lines and chained to a reluctant ally, Yaniv must deliver a vital letter or risk the destruction of his country, but the weather is harsh, the enemy is relentless and the ally is not what he seems...





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [jury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jury/pseuds/jury) in the [iibb2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/iibb2019) collection. 

> I could write a million words here and it wouldn't be enough to thank El, who is not just an amazing beta but also gives great advice, encouragement, and emotional support. Without El, I'd still be floundering in the dark. Also thanks to C for encouragement and affirmations.
> 
> Detailed warnings with spoilers are at the end of each chapter.

The enemy was pulling their dead out of the mud when Yaniv woke, raising his head from the ground to breathe. He couldn't see, blinking sweat and dirt out of his eyes. The landscape was twisted, black mud sodden with blood and frozen rain. He could see the colours of his unit dotted across the ground, a torn Jehan flag caught on a broken spear. No sounds reached him except the whistle of the wind. 

His breaths came slow and shallow, under the immense weight crushing his back. He twisted his head. A Miran corpse's heavy arm pinned him down, an arm slung around him where they had fallen, a gesture of camaraderie that concealed him with the sweep of its coat. He thanked the fallen Miran for protecting him, the words coming out as a ragged sigh. 

It wouldn't last. He could feel the hot bite in his thigh from the Kur sword he had failed to block. It had nicked the big vein. Death would be merciful, if not swift. The only warmth he could feel was that of his own blood saturating the dirt beneath him. Slowly, he worked the big coat off the corpse next to him, movement concealed by heavy fabric and the rain that was driving the Kur army from the field. The Miran's coat was twice as thick and warm as his own, and the dead man didn't need it any more.

Yaniv's breath slowed. The weight of the coat was heavy and warm against his back, layered over his own, and the rain had turned into a gentle, unintelligible whisper. It wasn't the worst way to die. His thoughts were fading, going dark and soft. There was only one he couldn't help but dwell on: where were the promised Miran forces? Were they just reserving them to defend their own border, saving their thaumaturges until all of Yaniv's army had died?

A hot hand closed over his thigh — the tight grip pinching the edges of the wound together. Pain lanced up his leg, followed by a cauterising heat that burnt until it was overwhelming, a white blaze strong enough to clear the haze of his mind. Then it was over, leaving only the bruising grip on his thigh and a matching one around his wrist. 

He tried to raise his head, but a firm hand pressed it back down, pushing his face into the dirt. Sound was returning to his ears: the stomp of boots in mud, the cries of orders resonating across the field, and below even that, the groans of the dying and wounded, the bellow of a horse.

At first he thought he had finally died. That lasted a long moment until he realised that the chasm inside him wasn't pain but the absence of it, the smoke of a blown-out candle. From the corner of his eye he could see a dark green cloak, a gold chain glinting amongst its folds. A medic, then, he thought. No one from his unit had a cloak like that, finely woven and adorned with gold. That was all he could see of his rescuer; the hand on the back of his head kept his eyes cast down. 

The hand grabbed the back of Yaniv’s neck and urged him up, a signal he couldn't help but follow, then moved to his arm and urged him backwards until he was half crouched on the ground, stumbling backwards. When a copse of trees enveloped them, he could finally lift his head. It took a deep blink before his vision cleared from the sweat stinging his eyes. Night had swiftly fallen. The light was fading from behind the trees, almost gone.

Something was pounding at the back of his head that he couldn't recognise, and he twisted his neck to try and find the source. There was no sound, but a figure hesitating at the edge of his vision was — that was no medic. That was no Jehan! His eyes met the pale grey ones of a Miran, whose unmarked face was as untrustworthy as his tense posture, ready to flee at a moment's notice. He was smaller than Yaniv expected, small enough that Yaniv was sure he could put him on the ground with one hand. 

The Miran's eyes were as shocked as Yaniv's. Yaniv recoiled, an instinctive step backwards causing the Miran to stumble forwards, something tugging hard on Yaniv's wrist. He looked down. There was a bracelet on his wrist, not more than a centimetre wide, made of thin metal that gleamed in the light. Like everything else Miran, it looked expensive and wildly impractical — he couldn't fathom why the Miran would have slid it around his wrist. 

He stared at it with no comprehension, trying to pull his hand back. It wouldn't come. There was a chain linked with the bracelet, drawn to its limit. Yaniv traced it with his eyes, and found its other end was connected to an identical bracelet around the Miran's skinny wrist. 

"What is this?" Yaniv said.

"Quiet," the Miran said, in heavily accented Jehan. Just that sound alone raised Yaniv's hackles, a slow thread of anger beginning to bubble under his skin. He'd had enough of being told what to do by righteous Mirans, especially in his own language. 

The Miran wound the chain around his wrist until Yaniv was drawn close enough to feel the warmth of his body, even through his cloaked layers. He followed the Miran's gaze to the fires on the other end of the treeline. Yaniv couldn't remember if they burnt their dead in Kur as they did in Jehan — he had a vague notion that they buried them deep within the earth. He could feel that phantom pressure of the ground all around him now, and imagined being pressed into the dark earth if he had not survived. He swallowed, slowly, trying to count the dark figures around the distant blaze. 

The moonlight was dulled by clouds, but when Yaniv turned the Miran's eyes were narrowed, and directed at him, not the Kur army at all. Yaniv couldn't identify their emotion beyond the superiority all Mirans directed at him.

"That's not your coat," the Miran said, and when his lips drew away from his teeth, Yaniv could see that his four front teeth had been filed into sharp points. Yaniv flinched back. The Miran didn't react, cool gaze heavy against his skin.

"No," Yaniv said, fighting to keep his voice level. The king might have signed a treaty with Mira, but it didn't enforce his politeness, only his allegiance. He pulled hard with his hand again, forcing the Miran to stumble once more, the golden chain ribboning down and disappearing into the folds of the Miran's cloak. "What is this?"

"Evidence of a mistake," the Miran said, and he didn't sound put off in the least by Yaniv's harsh tone. With each word Yaniv could see those teeth again. His stomach flipped with repulsion. "I saved your life — we all have regrets." 

That ragged pulse was still pounding in the back of his head, his mind fuzzy and confused. It was something more than just a simple headache — the Miran had done something beyond saving his life. Typical Miran. They never offered anything without something hidden in the bargain. 

It was like he could hear a distant bell tolling somewhere deep in the back of his head. Probably the Miran delving for Jehan secrets deep within Yaniv's thoughts. Yaniv dropped his eyes to the forest floor. His commanding officer had spent days teaching them to block Miran magic, both before and after the alliance, but Yaniv had never expected to actually use it. It felt like tensing a muscle at the back of his brain, and the sensation receded, then vanished. 

The Miran didn't react except to reach out and press his fingers against Yaniv's pulse, right above the golden bracelet. Yaniv pulled back instantly, snatching his wrist away. The Miran rolled his eyes. 

"I would think Jehans more resilient," he said. "Do you shy away from the chirurgeon in the hospital tent too?" 

Yaniv didn't answer. If a Miran spoke more than three words in a row to him, he'd found there was always a trap concealed in them, an excuse to make him look stupid in a way he hadn't spotted. This one didn't seem impressed by his silence. Yaniv's increasingly desperate fingers kept turning the bracelet around, finding no clasp on the bracelet, no hinge, until the Miran reached down to try and stop him, but Yaniv dodged the hands and their feigned camaraderie once more.

"I don't understand," Yaniv said, trying to shake his hand free of the cuff. It encircled his wrist tightly enough that he could not fit a finger underneath it. There was no pattern printed on it, no Miran writing that might explain the spell that had trapped him — or _why_ the Miran would want to trap him. Closer examination revealed the gold was more burnished than he had thought at first glance. He could think of only a few possibilities, and none of them seemed better than the others. Surely the Miran could tell from looking at Yaniv that he had no information or use to Mira. 

"Is it preferable to understand or to _live_," the Miran hissed, and then pressed against Yaniv, driving him back against the tree. The suddenness of the movement, rather than his slight weight, took Yaniv off guard, his back knocking into the solid weight of the trunk. The Miran was all bone and anger, none of the firm muscle of a soldier. 

Yaniv raised a fist to fight back — fearing the slide of a knife into his side, his sword tangled hopelessly in the Miran's chain and cloak — but then noticed what the Miran had seen first: a row of torches departing from the Kur fires, headed in their direction, a line of light that struck fear into his body — fear he knew he could not show to the Miran. 

Yaniv reached into a pocket for his cigarettes, hoping to conceal his thoughts, and encountered stiff paper instead. He thumbed over the edge before drawing it out into the moonlight. The characters on the front were Miran, long loops and strokes of different coloured inks blending together. He knew each colour somehow changed the meanings of the characters, but he didn't know how. Like everything Miran, it had no purpose to its extravagance. 

The Miran was crowding him, trying to get a look at the letter. He let it drop from his fingers, but the Miran stooped and caught it before it hit the ground, his hands flashing in the air. The Miran examined the front, then swiftly turned it over and broke the wax seal with urgency rather than care. The cuff on the Miran's wrist slid back, revealing a red mark overlaying a band of scarred skin. The Miran was too busy reading to notice Yaniv's gaze, his own flicking back and forth across the page, his fingers leaving muddy prints on the back of the paper.

"What is it?" Yaniv said, and the Miran glanced up. He had forgotten Yaniv was even there.

"Nothing," the Miran said, folding the letter and tucking it away into his cloak, his gaze returning to the chain; it then rose to the torches growing ever closer. "Get up," he said, standing. 

Yaniv had had enough of taking orders from Mirans who thought they had the authority to give them simply by virtue of birthplace. "No," he said, and didn't turn his head, even when the chain snapped tight between them, tight enough to lift his hand. The Miran could put his whole back into it and probably wouldn't do more than raise Yaniv's arm. He fought the urge to pull back and send the Miran sprawling — he could do it with one hand. 

"_No_?" the Miran said. "I thought Jehan were thick-headed, not suicidal."

Yaniv ground his teeth together and ignored the jibe. "Not until you tell me what's in that letter."

"Nothing," the Miran said, and it was as unconvincing as the first time.

"I'm not a fool." 

"Enough of a fool to sit and wait to die," the Miran said, arch. "We're allies. There's no significance in what it is — what matters to me matters to you." 

"Our _countries_ are allies," Yaniv said. The Miran yanked on the chain. Yaniv tensed his arm, rendering the pull negligible. 

The Miran was sweating, now, with effort more than fear, Yaniv suspected. It seemed he hadn't expected Yaniv to ignore his cutting remarks, and answer them with physical force. Maybe the Miran should have trained harder, rather than sharpening his tongue. 

"So you can tell me," Yaniv added. But he wasn't swaying the Miran at all; the only emotion he was eliciting from him was frustration. Yaniv could feel him thinking — was that what that sensation was, the clouded otherness at the back of his mind, like the Miran was giving a running commentary of his thoughts?

"I'm glad _you're_ willing to die to prove a point," the Miran said. The tugs on the chain were becoming more frantic. He began swearing in Miran — just about the only Miran that Yaniv could understand, although it usually preceded being punched or spat on. He no longer felt threatened by the tone.

"_You_ chained yourself to me," Yaniv said.

"I thought you were a Miran officer and not a stubborn Jehan bastard," the Miran said, and Yaniv could _feel_ his fear, thick at the back of his throat. "I won't forget this," the Miran said, crowding back into Yaniv's face and gripping his chin with one cold hand. The hand had the softness of one that had never held a sword, and its grip was weak. 

Yaniv wrested his chin free with the barest movement and stood, the simple action of his movement pushing the Miran back and startling him again. The Miran's eyes flicked up and down his body, finally assessing Yaniv as a soldier — as a _threat_. The torches were close enough that Yaniv could see the flicker of light on the leaves at his feet.

"Fine. It's a military report," the Miran said, and the glimpse of his sharp teeth sent another shiver down Yaniv's back. "A messenger — spy — someone — has been leaking information to Kur."

"The thaumaturges," Yaniv said, tasting the word. He forced himself to look up into the Miran's eyes, which were darting between his face and the encroaching light. "Is that why they didn't — " 

"Yes," the Miran said, hastily. "That's why. That's — they were delayed — ambushed. We can't discuss it now." 

_Bastards_, Yaniv thought, but his anger was equally divided between Mira and Kur. For a people that boasted of their magical prowess, how had the Mirans let themselves lose to Kur? They had probably just retreated — not a single one of them would care about Jehan's losses in the battle they abandoned. 

Yaniv couldn't let Kur kill his whole unit, not if he had a chance to survive. His fingers drifted up to the unmarked skin on his left cheek, swallowing down the bitter fear that it would be marked by nothing more than the deaths of his comrades. 

Yaniv sprang to his feet and turned into the forest, dragging the Miran behind him. The chain was so tight it dragged his wrist behind him, his sword banging hard against his legs. The dash turned into more of a jog, then a swift walk as the Miran struggled to keep up, his high, laboured breath audible even over the thump of their feet. Pine needles lashed Yaniv's face, the wind drawing tears from his eyes. The drag on the chain was too much to bear and Yaniv slowed further, leaving the Miran doubled over and gasping for breath.

"What kind of soldier are you?" Yaniv said, his words issuing from his mouth in an irate cloud of steam.

"You couldn't run at all if it wasn't for me," the Miran said, but he was panting too hard for breath, which removed the vitriol from his words.

It gave Yaniv a moment to observe him. Unlike any soldier Yaniv had ever seen — Miran or not — he had dark, long hair braided in a crown across his head and pairs of earrings marching up the sides of his ears. His face was a strange mix of delicate and harsh features, thick brows and a stubborn, jutting chin, mixed with grey eyes framed with long lashes. His expression marred it even further, harsh and glaring up at Yaniv, not to mention his filed teeth. Yaniv couldn't conceive of a reason to do it — was that what Mira considered attractive?

"Don't stare," the Miran said. "I'm not staring at your — " He waved his hand at Yaniv's face. 

"My scars?" Yaniv said, and lifted his chin, turning first one cheek and then the other to the Miran. "You can't even read them."

"I certainly can_not_," the Miran said, turning away in disgust. "Don't make me look at that."

Yaniv shrugged. The Miran was a skinny thing draped in cloaks, his boots and leggings caked in mud, with a curious habit of hiding his hands in his pockets. His lips were pressed thin and a little blue, but Yaniv didn't feel inclined to offer his coat. "What's your name?"

The Miran looked at him like he had asked something obscene. "Kish," he said, after a pause.

Yaniv laughed. "You're a pretty poor liar for a spy."

"I'm not a _spy_," the Miran said. "My name is Rhahat."

That name sounded more genuine. "Yaniv," he said, and Rhahat frowned. Yaniv looked down at the chain, then up to his own wrist. "Can you take this off now?"

"No," Rhahat said, his hand appearing from within his cloak to run his fingers across the chain. "It doesn't come off."

"That's ridiculous," Yaniv said, winding the chain between his fingers and giving it a sharp tug. It didn't give, just caused Rhahat to stumble towards him and then scowl. "It must."

"I've tried everything," Rhahat said. "Well, everything quiet."

"What's the point?"

"It helps the healing," Rhahat says. "I can only heal the person I'm bound to. Probably doesn't work with Jehans."

"What's that supposed to mean," Yaniv snapped. 

"Do you need everything explained to you?" Rhahat said. "It's a good thing I know a lot of simple Jehan words." 

Yaniv barely managed to ignore him; he bowed his head and took to bending and twisting the chain. There was no weakness that he could find in the dull gold links, despite the fact that they were so small he should have been able to break them with no effort. Rhahat was watching him, lip curled, but he made no comment until Yaniv looped the chain and drew his knife.

"I wouldn't," he said, but Yaniv laid the knife against the chain anyway, and was rewarded with a zing of magic that travelled up his arm and rattled his teeth. He swore and dropped the knife, which pitched down into the loam and leaves and quivered there. His fingertips were numb. 

Rhahat approached and closed his hand over Yaniv's. A brief flare of heat issued from his skin, transferring to Yaniv's, the feeling returning to his fingers as the warmth dissipated. Rhahat sighed and stepped away. This close, he looked tired, dark circles under his eyes and a slight sway to his stance. 

"We have to get that message to the commander," Rhahat said.

"_Your_ commander?"

"The Miran commander," Rhahat said, his tone withering.

"Do you speak Kur?"

His head snapped up. "No."

"Terrible liar for a spy."

Rhahat glared. "Do you?"

"I speak Jehan."

"And you're among the most eloquent of its speakers, I'm sure," Rhahat said.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore his insults. It wasn't like the Miran soldiers in the camps who would spit the same words at any passing Jehan. Rhahat somehow made it personal, each comment pointed directly at Yaniv. It almost seemed like Rhahat had forgotten he was trying to convince Yaniv to help him.

Rhahat looked down, then back up. Yaniv couldn't read him well. He was too tired and sore, his body protesting, complaining about wounds that were no longer there. Miran affairs didn't concern him. Each further step he took into the forest marked him as a deserter. He didn't think the fact he'd already died for his country would count for much. For a moment he thought Rhahat had given up speaking to him, but the silence didn't last. 

"You'd be a hero," Rhahat said, dipping his gaze and then glancing up through his lashes like a dog begging for scraps. 

"A _Miran_ hero," Yaniv said.

"I'd say that's better than Jehan," Rhahat said. Yaniv spat on the ground. 

"It's Mira's war," Yaniv said. 

"And Jehan is Mira's ally, so let's go," Rhahat said. His head lifted at the distant sound of a hound baying. Fear flooded Yaniv's mind, foreign and overwhelming. Rhahat drew close, the edge of his cloak brushing against Yaniv's sleeve. "I hate dogs," he hissed. "Let's _go._"

Yaniv considered stalling again, using it to draw more information from Rhahat — taking something back to his captain that would earn him fewer lashes, not to mention the allure of scoring a few points of his own, but he didn't need the magic to know Rhahat was on the verge of panic, his eyes wide, breath coming high and quick. _What a fool_, Yaniv thought, _to be so frightened of the dogs and not their masters._ Rhahat looked like a dog himself, curled close to Yaniv's side with his sharp teeth bared. Only the worst kind of soldiers would wear their fears so clearly on their faces. 

"Go," Yaniv said, and Rhahat went, leading this time. His pace lagged. What kind of man couldn't run? Even infantrymen could run. Often it was all they could do. But fear spurred Rhahat's feet, as if the hounds were already nipping at him. Yaniv kept pace easily and, despite the early winter chill, soon found himself sweating enough to feel it. The landscape around them never changed, dark-wooded trees, limbs stark with ice, needles carpeting the ground. The branches were bowed low enough that Rhahat could pass under them, but Yaniv had to duck, occasionally slapped by scores of needles that felt like they were scarring him anew. 

Rhahat's bobbing head was the only waypoint ahead of him, his quick footsteps barely disturbing the ice crusting the ground. And the link, the chain between them, trembling with tension, the moon-washed gold catching the light and distracting his eye downwards.

The last of the moon had vanished behind a cloud when Yaniv brought Rhahat to a stop. He thought Rhahat might have kept running forever; there was a haze of fear in his eyes. Rhahat crouched down, tucking his hands into his armpits, his breath billowing out in great clouds. The way behind them was clear, still and silent, nothing to mark their passage except a broken branch.

"They won't pursue," Yaniv said, tempering his breath to speak. 

"You don't know that," Rhahat muttered towards the ground. 

"They'll be treating their wounded," Yaniv said mildly, despite his irritation. "Preparing for the next battle. We're a waste of time."

Rhahat reached into his cloak, then withdrew his hand hastily, sending the chain between them shivering. Yaniv snapped his wrist, moving Rhahat's arm; Rhahat glared up at him. 

"Don't think I'm enjoying this any more than you are," he said.

"It's a nice change from marching," Yaniv said, just to watch Rhahat narrow his eyes. 

"I can see you have a mind for marching," Rhahat said, tart, but Yaniv let the words slide off him. It reminded him that Mirans always wanted to make cutting comments. 

"No retort?" Rhahat said. "It's a waste of time to strike at your feelings, I think."

Rhahat knew he couldn't win in a fight against any Jehan, so reduced himself to remarks instead. Let him pick up a sword and then speak to Yaniv with that. Or a bow. Spear — anything. 

The reality of the situation was catching up with Yaniv. Although Rhahat had healed his leg, the day-to-day aches were still there, the one in his feet from ill-fitting boots, bruises from the battle, fresh and flush with dull pain. He leaned back against the rough, dark wood of the pine behind him and closed his eyes, just for a moment, even though he knew it was a mistake. 

The chain slackened as Rhahat rose. Yaniv opened his eyes again. As tired as he felt, Rhahat looked twice as bad when he thought Yaniv wasn't looking, the dark circles and pallid skin matched with a tremor in his hands, his eyes darting back and forth amongst the trees like a hound might appear at any moment. Every few minutes he would reach into his cloak to make sure the letter was still there.

"I can carry it," Yaniv said, closing his eyes once more.

"What? No."

"We should seek shelter," Yaniv continued. "Rest for a few hours."

"And let them catch up?" Rhahat said, pitch tremulous. He had composed himself by the time Yaniv looked at him, meeting his grey eyes. "No, of course," Rhahat said. "We should rest."

After some minutes of scouting through the forest, Rhahat found a copse of grown-together trees where they could shelter, back to back. It was pitiful, really, as both shelter and a hiding place, just a chance growth of two trees leaning towards each other and not apart. They were dark-wooded pines covered in scales of rough bark, sticky with sap that smelled as strongly as any perfume. It wouldn't hide or shield them from any Kur who bothered to actually use their eyes to look, but Rhahat looked so pleased to have found it that Yaniv had to bite back his concerns. Both of them were far too tired to keep looking. It wasn't like a fully-formed cabin would spring from the trees. And a Miran wouldn't know better — probably had never been in a forest before. But his contentment rankled Yaniv, like Rhahat wanted praise for a poor job. 

Both the chain and the trees necessitated closeness, but Yaniv lingered at the edge of the chain for as long as possible, Rhahat shivering on the other end as he glanced between the trees and Yaniv. Rhahat eventually rolled his eyes and settled down into the damp grass, sweeping his cloak out. He pressed himself back against the tree trunk, the movement making Yaniv crouch down just to release tension from the chain. 

"Am I so terrifying?" Rhahat said. "Or is it something else?"

"I don't make a habit of associating with Mirans," Yaniv said. 

There was no fear in Rhahat's eyes — Yaniv could feel something Rhahat was feeling that he didn't much like or understand, something sly. The feeling intensified as Rhahat's eyes narrowed, turning into a howling like the wind, so that Yaniv had to steel his features to not reveal the probing of the magic. The sound swelled and then abruptly stopped, Rhahat's eyes still narrowed. 

What was he trying to do? Force Yaniv to bend to his will? Yaniv was surprised any Miran would have waited this long to try and control him. Luckily, it seemed like the blocking technique they had taught him was working — at least enough to stop Rhahat from influencing him, if not to block the strange sensations. 

"That's going to have to change," Rhahat said, leaning as far to the side as possible to give Yaniv more space. "Or are you going to stand all night?" He waved his hand down at the small patch of grass like he was presenting it to a king. 

Yaniv couldn't figure out how he was being trapped. Again, it seemed better to ignore the jabs, but he had to move into the tree trunk, shuffling in with an ungainly gait until they were pushed together, legs pressing into one another. He hated to admit it, but the trees did effectively block the wind, and he could see that Rhahat had warmed up a little, rubbing his hands together and then tucking them into his cloak with a self-satisfaction that Yaniv found immensely irritating, and closing his eyes. 

"I'll take first watch, then," Yaniv said, loudly, but Rhahat didn't stir. In truth, he was grateful for any moment with Rhahat's eyes off him, a moment where he could think in the night air. After a while, he felt Rhahat's body go slack and relaxed, his legs digging into Yaniv's. He was warm, snuggled into the folds of his cloak, and for a moment, with his sharp teeth covered, Yaniv thought he could be fooled into thinking he wasn't a threat, even though he was still unquestionably Miran. 

How foolish to be able to fall asleep without a word — or how tired, Yaniv thought, but dismissed it. If anything, he suspected it was a ploy to show how unafraid Rhahat was. Anyone could pretend to sleep. 

Yaniv trailed his fingers across that chain again, then sighed. If he could cut himself free, he would do it right now and track his way home without a second thought. Let Rhahat wake up alone tomorrow surrounded by Kur soldiers. He would be free without a single look back. Then Rhahat shifted slightly against him, and Yaniv was reminded of the letter. He couldn't just leave.

Still, the yearning for home was deeper than bone. Everything about where they were felt wrong, from the temperature of the air to the scent of crushed grass under their bodies, not to mention Rhahat by his side. The idea of having to take a Miran into Jehan made him scowl, feeling it cut deep into his face. Nothing about that could ever bode well, from those that had come at the beginning right down to the Miran herald at the town square. Had that man known he was calling for a hundred Jehans to come down the mountain to their deaths? Probably. That was more than likely the point. Their bodies weren't cold in the ground, but Yaniv doubted a single Miran knew any of their names.

Fuck Mira, then, he thought. Let Kur rain down hellfire and burn them to ashes — except that would burn Jehan first. The mountain range trapped between the two was all he had left. Fuck the king, too, for signing them into Mira's slavery. The king had allowed the army to become a weapon in Mira's hand. 

No, that was wishful thinking. They were just an obstacle for Kur to clamber over, buying time for Mira to defend their own border. That was what he had always thought, even after he was drafted. He'd bitten his tongue, kept those thoughts to shared, knowing glances among the cohort when the bitter tone of their commanders became unsubtle. The king had signed the treaty, not Yaniv. Not anyone he knew. He could march to their orders because he would have fought Kur of his own volition, and he was allowed, as long as he kept his tongue still. 

He bit his tongue to quell the thoughts, the sharp pain bringing him out of his reverie. He was meant to be keeping watch, and stewing in his own thoughts just distracted him from any twitch of leaves or snapping twigs. His hands were tight with tension, and he had to force himself to relax them. 

Rhahat was relaxed too, in a way you couldn't fake, the warm edge of his cloak fluttering against Yaniv's leg. He was encroaching on Yaniv's territory. Sitting shoulder to shoulder was growing intolerable, Rhahat's thigh a line of warmth against him, his head lolling back against Yaniv's shoulder. Yaniv was torn between shifting away from him and lingering just for warmth. 

Kur nights were warmer than Jehan, of course, but he still found himself shivering as the night grew deeper. The slightest frost was coming down on the grass and trees around them, and soon the only warm parts of him were those sheltered under Rhahat's cloak, even though he was loath to admit it was because of the heat of his body. He silently cursed himself and his own weakness. A Miran was coping better with the cold than he was, even though Rhahat's lips were still blue and he was growing pale. Yaniv shuffled closer to him until he could feel Rhahat’s breaths stir the air, feel the shift of his cloak as his chest rose and fell with his breathing. 

He shuddered at the thought of his cohort seeing him now — he had left them all in the dirt and was now so close to a Miran. He was the very picture of a traitor himself. Not a one among them would hesitate to bring their swords down. Honestly, Yaniv doubted he would think twice about it himself. The men and women of his unit had all carried wounds from Mira, either on their bodies or in their bloodline. 

But he had to carry that letter, not just to save Jehan, but to clear his own name. It would be easier if he could just take it himself. 

Yaniv gathered the chain in his hand as quietly as he could, winding the links back and forth between his fingers. It felt like a marriage gift for a woman, fine-linked and delicate. Rhahat had said he had tried everything, but Yaniv thought his own capabilities were different. 

The light was dull and shadowed by the trees, so he relegated himself to touch alone, using the sensitivity of his fingertips. It was like testing a new piece of armour, looking for errors in the forging, a missing link or weak join where a sword could slip inside. But there was no flaw in the links that he could find, not even a gap where he could force a fingernail. How had it been forged seamlessly? Metal had to be bent to form a chain. _Miran magic,_ he thought, and fought the urge to spit on the ground. 

Yaniv let the chain drop from his fingers. The memory of the shock of the knife against the chain made him wary, the numbness something he wasn't eager to repeat. Yaniv could still _feel_ Rhahat's mind at the back of his, lurking and dreaming. It was akin to feeling a light touch on the back of his neck, the faintest brush that made him turn to see nothing there. Magic wasn't something he understood beyond childhood stories, but he _was_ blocking Rhahat's access to his thoughts, as far as he could tell — and yet the slumbering presence lingered. 

Yaniv probed back along the link, feeling as inept as a child swinging a stick. Rhahat stirred as he continued to reach back across the link, leaning into Yaniv as he shifted in his sleep, mumbling something. Yaniv pulled back hastily, trying to double down on his blocking. He ran through the lesson his commander had given before going to the front, but what he was doing felt right. It felt like the way it had been explained; the barrier was gleaming in his mind. Something had changed now that he had probed it; he was more aware of Rhahat behind it, lightly sleeping. 

A few hours passed without more than the sound of a deer or rabbit stirring the undergrowth. The moon had begun to lower when he shook Rhahat awake from what felt like a dream of warmth. His eyes widened when he realised it was Yaniv there, and not whoever he expected. The shock resonated in the back of Yaniv's head like a struck bell. He grimaced. 

Rhahat blinked at him. To Yaniv's surprise, no cutting comment came about their closeness, but he did move away, the warmth of his cloak slipping from Yaniv's body. 

"Good morning," Yaniv said.

"I've been slapped awake more pleasantly than that," Rhahat said, rousing himself and standing to brush himself down. He looked worse than when he had gone to sleep, except for the cheery smile pasted over the ghastly pallor of his face. Yaniv found him difficult to look at, so he turned his gaze to the treeline instead, scanning across roots and leaves for any sign of movement. 

Rhahat sighed behind him and made a move that pulled the chain tight, vanishing behind the tree for a few moments. When he returned, Yaniv bent down to break the skin of ice on a nearby puddle, gently cupping his hand in to wash his face, feeling like it shifted only a fraction of the dirt and weariness from his skin. Rhahat looked like he was going to turn his nose up at the water, but knelt and washed his face, licking the droplets from his fingers.

"Where are we?" Rhahat said.

"I don't know," Yaniv said. False dawn was colouring the sky between the trees.

"Jehan or Mira," Rhahat said, turning around to look and achieving nothing more than tangling himself in the chain.

"Mira?" Yaniv said. "We're eight days from Mira. Maybe more."

"Eight _days_," Rhahat said, mostly to himself. 

"How do you not know that?" Yaniv knew it was a mistake to engage, but Rhahat's genuine confusion baffled him. One glance should have told him exactly where he was. 

"Jehan, then."

"This isn't Jehan," Yaniv said. "It's Kur."

"I hope not," Rhahat said, voice tight. Fear flared in Yaniv's mind, foreign and grating. He frowned. Yaniv thought that _he_ had much more to lose if Kur was advancing. Mira had fortifications, weapons — not to mention magic — and Jehan between them. They had the means to survive. Rhahat would be drinking tea in a castle while Jehan was razed to the ground. Maybe someone would look out the window and comment on the smoke. 

He was glad all at once that Rhahat couldn't sense his feelings. Yaniv doubted that he had spent even a moment thinking about Jehan in the past year.

"I need to see the stars," Yaniv said, and Rhahat blinked at him, uncomprehending. Yaniv sighed, unwilling to explain to Rhahat's ignorant face. "I can navigate from the stars," he said, as he would to a child.

"Right," Rhahat said, brow furrowed, glancing down at the dirt and leaves, bewilderment bubbling at the back of Yaniv's mind.

"Or I can climb a tree," Yaniv said, imagining the ungainly struggle of climbing a tree in tandem. Rhahat grimaced and shook his head. Yaniv sighed and stood, stretching his back. Rhahat followed suit, wiping his hands on his cloak and walking after Yaniv without question. 

They walked quickly but steadily towards the edge of the forest, Rhahat trailing as Yaniv forged on, occasionally lengthening his stride to force Rhahat to hurry without having to chide him. Under any other circumstances, Yaniv might have been able to admire the beauty of the Kur forest, the close-clustered birches and dark wooded pines reminding him of home, even if it didn't have the views of Jehan. Kur was as flat as the blade of his sword, and even after having been on the Jehan lowlands for some weeks, the air still felt thicker and more tasteless here. He longed for the true crispness of Jehan air, the kind that felt like it had to shatter before you could breathe it. 

He could feel Rhahat thinking, too, although he couldn't tell what about. There was precious little time left before the sun rose, but at the fringe of the forest he could squint upwards, just enough to pick out the fading constellations. It felt wrong, at first glance, to be so far west, even though the stars were dull in the brightening sky. 

Rhahat stood quietly behind him as if he was a contrite child. But still there was that moment of thinking that was turning over in Rhahat's mind, like spinning thread out of wool. Yaniv couldn't tell if it was all an act — to portray himself as a terrible spy to cover his true intentions. Still, it wouldn't work. Just the teeth alone would give him away wherever he went.

"Well?"

Yaniv had paused to consider the sky and then lost himself in thought, face tilted up while Rhahat waited impatiently behind him. He considered pretending to wait a little longer to fray Rhahat's nerves, but he'd have to feel that too. 

"Pretty far southwest," Yaniv said. "Where are we going?" He felt Rhahat's hesitation and bullied past it. "You can't go alone — you don't even know how to get there without me."

"I suppose," Rhahat said, dubiously, and exhaled slowly. His emotions clamoured at the back of Yaniv's head, too many different feelings for Yaniv to be able to pick them apart. "It's in the northeast," Rhahat said. Yaniv finally turned to look at him; he had one hand in his cloak, the other at his mouth, one sharp tooth pressing into the tip of his finger, dimpling the flesh. He withdrew it guiltily once Yaniv caught him, eyes dipping before meeting his gaze. "At the mountains, on the Miran border."

"At the mountains," Yaniv said, slowly, hoping Rhahat would realise that _all_ Jehan was mountains, but he just blinked, much too guileless for Yaniv's taste. "Four days," Yaniv said. "Maybe more, or less."

"Depending on?"

"How fast you can walk."

"Only _me_?"

Yaniv tried to keep the grimace off his face. "I'm a soldier." He shifted his weight from foot to foot, judging the weariness of his body. It didn't matter. He marched to the orders he was given, in rain or wind, regardless of whether he was exhausted. It had been that way since his name was called outside the town hall. What did it matter that Rhahat was the one directing him now? He was sure that he would be as merciless as any other Miran commander. 

"You can't do this alone either," Rhahat said, mulishly. 

"I wouldn't be here if I was alone," Yaniv said.

"No," Rhahat said. "You'd be dead."

Yaniv couldn't argue, though he wanted to, so he set off northwest instead, without retorting. 

"You're not afraid?" Rhahat said, to Yaniv's back. "Do you even care?" But the chain reached its limit and he followed without another word.

They remained within the treeline, weaving in and out of the forest, trying to layer their tracks across deer prints, puddles and rocks. Yaniv knew it was useless if the dogs still had their scent, but it seemed to reassure Rhahat. He was panting behind Yaniv, struggling to catch up with the punishing pace, the faint sense of his annoyance overwhelmed by exhaustion, each footfall accompanied by pain and a sucking breath. 

Yaniv's steps were no less painful, his sword banging a bruise into his leg, cold sweat chilling his body into the wind, feeling first cool and then numb. The wind was quiet but punishing, pushing against them. There was no relief, no rest coming, so his body stopped complaining, ceasing its requests. The sun came down weak and filtered by the dark pines, which were indistinguishable from each other as they walked, until Yaniv began to fear they had never set off at all, or he had fallen asleep on watch. He'd gladly take the beating if it meant seeing his comrades alive again.

"Long journey," Rhahat said from behind him, tone light. "Talk could pass the time."

"I don't have much to say to a Miran," Yaniv said. He felt a little prick of hurt from Rhahat and ignored it. It changed to something sharper-edged. 

His arm was yanked back painfully, wrenching at his wrist. Rhahat was grabbing at him, dragging him back. He rounded on Rhahat, bitter words in his mouth, his fist rising to match, but Rhahat pulled on him with his entire weight, dragging him down into the shadow of a fallen tree — an old log cleaved in two. Rhahat shoved him down and covered him with his cloak, before he began to drag sticks and bark over them, painfully pressing down on Yaniv, his elbows and knees jabbing into Yaniv's stomach and legs. He fought the urge to throw Rhahat off, knowing by now it wasn't an attack, but his instincts told him to push and yell, thrash against the touch. 

The pulse of Rhahat's fear was painful. Rhahat was shaking, full-bodied, despite the effort Yaniv could feel to keep himself still. Beyond that, now that he could focus, there was distant talk, even singing, in Kur. Rhahat covered Yaniv's mouth with one hand and his arm with the other, gripping it hard enough to bruise. His fingers clamped down on Yaniv's flesh until his arm began to go numb. He could feel the jackrabbiting of Rhahat's heart and the way he was forcing himself to control his breath; it came quiet and hot against the side of Yaniv's face. 

Yaniv could feel nothing past the initial shock; his own heart was beating steady and slow enough to unnerve him, even with Rhahat's hand clamped across his mouth. All his senses were focused on the voices, soldiers bickering in Kur. He'd been on the march long enough to understand what they were talking about, if not the words. They were tired, their feet hurt, they were hungry. But there was a jubilant note amongst it all. They were _winning_. All that was left between them and Mira was Jehan, and Jehan was no threat. A few more battles and it would all be over; they would have their prize.

Yaniv bit his tongue and tasted blood, his whole being focused on the cheerful songs and stamp of feet until they were gone, moving into the distance without even knowing what they were leaving behind. Rhahat's hand went slack and slipped away, his whole body relaxing at once. Yaniv knew it wasn't true relaxation, just the draining away of tension, and he tried not to focus on how it felt to have Rhahat's weight resting on his chest, across his legs, his kneecap digging hard into Yaniv's thigh. 

They lay there for a moment more under the warmth of the cloak, with the bark and branches weighing heavily across them, waiting for any break in the silence. An infernal number of minutes passed before Rhahat began to sit up, pushing up through the branches until he burst through into fresh air. Yaniv leaned up into it, inhaling deeply, the crispness of the air after the stale humidity stinging his lungs. The air was fresh except for the earthy, herby scent of Rhahat's hair that lingered for a moment before being snatched away by the wind. 

"We have to go," Rhahat said, sweeping his cloak free of leaves and fastening it around his neck again. Yaniv nodded, winding the chain around his wrist just to feel the weight of it. He was unsure of how close they had come to death and unwilling to question it.

"Good ear," Yaniv said, gruff.

"Thank you," Rhahat said, accent thick in his throat enough to choke him. 

They set off again.. Rhahat's nerves were jangled; Yaniv could see it before he sensed it. Rhahat was tight to Yaniv's side now, keeping pace. His profile was severe, every time Yaniv snuck a glance at him, dark brows furrowed. He was concentrating on the sounds around them, to the point that Yaniv could hear them faintly doubled. Eventually he muttered something to himself in Miran and lifted his head, now with a calm expression that was fairly convincing pasted over his humming nerves. "I'm surprised _you_ didn't hear them coming. I thought the very trees themselves spoke to Jehan."

Yaniv's scoff was too loud in the now-quiet forest, above the whistle of the wind and the hush of their footsteps. "I don't know who's more the fool — whoever told you that, or you for believing it." 

Rhahat blinked up at him, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. "At least you've had a thought that wasn't about the weather," he said, too airily. Yaniv wasn't sure if Rhahat was more surprised that Yaniv had insulted him or that he had talked back at all. Either way, the corner of his lips crooked, not enough to call a smile, but enough to notice.

Now that they were on the opposite route of the Kur march, the evidence of their passage was obvious, trampled plants and grass crushed down into the mud, trees scored with wounds from idly swung swords, discarded items littering the ground. The carved path of destruction was both irritating and useful, covering their tracks for a while, each step a gift. Until the forest began to thin, opening up into a grand Kur plain, the steppes stretching off into flat grassland. 

Yaniv swore under his breath and Rhahat drew close, like when he had been spooked by the dogs, like the open space scared him just as much. His shoulders were raised up to his ears, a slight tremble running through his entire frame. Somehow there was still that Miran combination of arrogance and elegance in his posture, his straight back and cocked head, looking around like everything was beneath him, even while scared. Yaniv found it slightly impressive, just how strongly tied the Miran arrogance was over Rhahat's more human instincts. 

Water — Yaniv could hear water nearby. Muted, but close. The river was a yawning gap in the plain, worn down until it was a gulf that they nearly walked into, a cavern of dark, wet rock shining in the pale sunlight. Dark sand and round pebbles lined the bottom of the river. Yaniv climbed down the bank first, taking handfuls of dry grass as he slid down to heavily land on the bank, palms smarting from the surprisingly tough stalks. 

Rhahat crouched at the top of the bank for a while, until Yaniv sighed and held up his hand. His hand was going numb and tingly, blood running out from holding it up, by the time Rhahat swallowed his fear and slid down the bank in an ungainly rush. Yaniv half-caught him, surprised again at the difference between them, Rhahat's weight barely dragging at Yaniv's arm. It made Yaniv feel ungainly compared to Rhahat — strength had never made him feel like this before, but there was something about the way Rhahat swatted him away with just a skinny arm, his step back wetting the hem of his cloak in the icy water. 

The river was running low as they traversed it. Rhahat kept stumbling on rocks, taken unawares by the sudden change in terrain. The banks rose high enough to conceal their presence, the rock walls shading them from the weak sunlight. Yaniv let his breath go, now that they were shielded by the hewn-out path that the river had cleaved, each centimetre a product of years of flow. 

They were so far downstream that even the early snowmelt wasn't enough to swell the flow, the water protected by a thin shield of glossy ice. Yaniv thought he knew the source of the river, somewhere high in the mountains. He had never ventured there, but the shepherds had mentioned it, bent low towards a fire to warm their hands. An ancient shepherd's track had run roughshod over the crags behind his cabin, but they only used it in early spring, when the usual trails were still too wet. The nights were still cold when they began to run the sheep over the lowlands, nights warmed by company and a friendly flame. 

He brought to mind the spring's image: a tiny seep, just enough to wet the ground, trickling out between reeds and cattails, water sweet enough to drink directly from the ground. From there, it tumbled down the mountain into a river of terrifying power, rapids spitting white water high into the sky, deep, still dams that were even more treacherous, danger belied by their stillness. 

Yaniv dispelled the imaginary in favour of the real. A cloud passed over the sun. The only sounds were Rhahat's breathing behind him and the wash of water over rock.

"I need to rest," Rhahat said. By the way he was tugging on the chain, it wasn't the first time he had spoken. Yaniv crouched down, letting his fingers run in the water. It was cold enough that the tips went numb, but he didn't withdraw them. 

He could sense that Rhahat wanted to speak — but about what, he wasn't sure. The sensation was as calm as the water that lapped against his fingers, but he knew it was dangerous still to engage in talking with Rhahat. Not only the possibility of personal harm from his sharp tongue, but Yaniv still wasn't convinced by anything he had said. Sure, he'd taken steps to protect Yaniv from the Kur march, but nothing proved that he would have done that if they weren't literally joined at the arm. 

His hand was aching. He drew it back and dried it on his leg. It came away rusty red. He blinked. Wiping it again made it worse. His hand was dark and red. It was blood — his blood. Rhahat had healed the wound but the blood remained, soaked into his trousers. Bile rose at the back of his throat. He tried to swallow, but it was too sour. He spat it into the river instead, twisting his face away from Rhahat so he wouldn't see. 

Rhahat was frowning at him, probably offended by his lack of manners. Yaniv scrubbed at his trousers for a useless moment more. The dark stain seemed all-encompassing. His mind was wandering — he had to force it back to maintain the barrier and keep Rhahat out of his thoughts.

Rhahat was saying something and stretching. Yaniv swallowed, rinsed his mouth and washed his hands. The blue of the sky seemed alien, the gentle sound of water too pleasant. Yesterday he had been dying next to his battalion and today he was wading with a Miran. He gritted his teeth and stood, facing away from Rhahat.

"Nothing to say?" Rhahat said. "What troubles you so much about speaking to me? I'd guess you're afraid of sounding stupid."

"Like I said," Yaniv said, and the smell of blood was still in his nose, clouding his senses. He could taste it between his teeth. "I don't have anything to say to a Miran."

"You don't have much to say _in _Miran," Rhahat said. "Why is it all Mirans can speak Jehan but no one pays us the same courtesy?"

"I haven't had much time to study," Yaniv said. He couldn't help being drawn in — Rhahat's tone felt like needles being pushed into the back of his neck. 

"You've lived next to Mira your entire life," Rhahat said.

Yaniv turned on him, tangling himself in the chain. "What does _that _mean?"

Rhahat's face was blank — deliberately blank, except for one arched eyebrow. "Everyone in Mira learns Jehan. Although I suppose it's easier for us to learn."

"We'll all be speaking Kur soon enough," Yaniv said. Rhahat paled, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to an alarming degree. "Shall we go?" He felt Rhahat's anger quell into resentment, tempered by a beating heart of fear. Yaniv pressed it down before it could become any louder. 

Another thought warred for space on his tongue. If Jehan weren't speaking Kur in a year, it would be Miran. Once the alliance succeeded and Kur was beaten back, it was almost certain. Mira would come for what they were owed. They wouldn't hesitate — not like before. 

It took a few humiliating moments before he had untangled himself from the chain; Rhahat was watching like it confirmed his suspicions of Jehan stupidity. 

Yaniv started off again, trying to conceal the boil in his blood. The back of his neck was hot with rage. Rhahat felt the same. He could feel it. Emotions were swinging back and forth between them until Yaniv could no longer tell which were his. He didn't know if Rhahat even knew what he was sending across the link — or if he did at all. 

It played on his tongue to spit the facts at Rhahat's face, but common sense held him back. Giving up such an advantage would be foolish. He knew Rhahat couldn't feel what he was feeling — not just because he was blocking it, but because Rhahat probably would have attacked him by now if he could. He tried to channel his anger into his steps instead, each one jarring his bones.

He clenched his jaw and tried to ignore the pain in his feet, each step like the pound of a hammer against tired flesh. Even so, he was more sure-footed than Rhahat. Every now and then, Yaniv would hear him stumble and curse in quiet Miran, like he was sleeping on his feet. Even now, when it mattered the most, Rhahat wasn't putting in any _effort_, as if he expected the Miran army to swoop down and rescue them any moment. Perhaps he would finally learn that the Miran army didn't respond quickly to things outside their borders.

Yaniv sighed. The metal around his wrist was bright and cold, a physical reminder. It was so cold that it wouldn't warm to blood temperature. Yaniv walked with one hand wrapped around his wrist to try and temper the chill, chafing at the skin with little result. It seemed to get colder with each step. Rhahat was dragging his feet, but whether it was because of exhaustion or recalcitrance, he wasn't sure. 

"Have you heard what they say?" Rhahat said, quiet enough that Yaniv had to strain to hear him. 

"Who — about what," Yaniv said, expecting to hear another jab at Jehan and in no mood to hear it. 

"About Kur."

"I don't listen to rumours," Yaniv said.

"Not listening to rumours and not having anyone to tell you rumours are two different things," Rhahat said, tart. Yaniv ignored him and hunched into his coat, turning the collar up around his ears. 

Rhahat scurried up beside him. There was barely room for them to walk side-by-side; each step he took now jarred his elbow against Yaniv's. "No, I mean — I'm not sure soldiers would hear." He was overeager to make up for his slight, but the jitter of fear behind it was only increasing.

"I don't want to hear anything," Yaniv said.

"That doesn't surprise me," Rhahat said. "Do you care about anything, really? Are all Jehans so —" He huffed out a breath and swallowed his thought, drifting back behind Yaniv like a scolded dog. Yaniv didn't understand why Rhahat would start talking and then start a fight, then act like _he'd _been wounded by his own sharp tongue. Was it a Miran thing? Yaniv hadn't spend enough time with one to know. 

He missed home — the smell of the forest, the calls of the birds at dawn, and beyond that, the calm of the lake, the distant tolling of the town bell. When the Miran herald had knocked at the door of his cabin, he had briefly thought it was a dream. He couldn't reconcile that with where he was now.

Rhahat's presence dulled as they trudged towards the sun, the day fading to an early evening. The taste of winter was in the wind and the brief daytime; the river was now wide and rushing, with no more ice gracing the surface. Rhahat was sleeping on his feet. There had been no signs of pursuit, but Yaniv knew better than to relax, constantly peering into the dusk with aching eyes, searching for any sign of movement. 

The sky above was dark with cloud now, and he could smell rain above the water of the river, the scent of wet grass carried on the wind. Rhahat wouldn't understand — he probably didn't even know what that scent was. Yaniv kept his mouth shut about it until the rain suddenly started, the world around them changing from still air to a downpour in less than a second. 

Rhahat yelped and twisted away, holding his hands above his head. Yaniv turned, about to sharpen his tongue against him, when he felt the chain go taut. Rhahat's arms were wheeling as he fought to keep his balance, feet sliding on suddenly-slick rocks. 

Yaniv launched himself forward, planting his feet, and grabbed Rhahat around the waist, hoisting him back to safety, his back pressed against the riverbank. Rhahat fought back, his feet thumping into Yaniv's shins hard enough that he considered dropping Rhahat and letting them both fall into the river, freezing waters be damned. 

"Put me _down_," Rhahat said, struggling free once his feet made contact with the ground. He pushed wet hair out of his face and glared up at Yaniv, his eyes hot enough to warm Yaniv against the rain. "Don't just pick people up."

Yaniv blinked. "Did you want us both to go into the river?"

"You really are an obstinate bastard," Rhahat spat.

"_Me_?" 

The rain was beginning to feel like a flurry of arrows even through Yaniv's coat. Standing here fighting would do them no favours. 

"I should have left you in that field," Rhahat snapped. He looked miserable, half-drowned, but he was holding his footing even when Yaniv stepped away and tugged on the chain, glaring up at him like it would serve some purpose to get drenched even further. 

"Probably," Yaniv said.

Somehow agreeing with him made Rhahat even more angry, which Yaniv couldn't begin to understand. Mirans were never pleased unless they had exactly what they wanted. He pulled on the chain again and Rhahat took a step forward that felt dangerous with intent, but Yaniv turned and began walking again, though he was unable to move far enough away to avoid Rhahat's words. 

"I thought you cared about Jehan. Is being chained to me so awful that you'd sacrifice the whole world to Kur to escape it?" Rhahat said. "Fool. Coward. Answer me!"

But Yaniv's attention was drawn to something else instead: a dark niche in the rock that widened enough for the two of them to sit comfortably apart. Yaniv stopped; Rhahat crashed into the back of him and shouted something in Miran. Yaniv walked into the cave and Rhahat followed only due to the chain. 

"Not the whole world," Yaniv said, squeezing water out of his coat. The rain outside was drumming on the rock, water sheeting down over the entrance to the niche. Rhahat looked torn between his instinct to shrink away from it and the distaste towards Yaniv that was rolling off his body. He was vibrating with anger, unwilling to take a step closer to Yaniv. 

"Just Mira, right?" he said. "You'd be content with all Mirans burning as long as your precious — "

"If Mira burns," Yaniv said, "Jehan will be long dead."

"Bastard," Rhahat said. "You're wishing for the deaths of all my people while condemning me because you _think_ I think the same." 

"If I think that," Yaniv said, "it's because I've seen — I know what Mira does to Je — to _us_."

"What does that mean," Rhahat said. "You look fine to me."

"Look at _yourself_," Yaniv snapped. "One earring from your ear could feed my village for a month." 

Rhahat narrowed his eyes. He was somehow still aloof and proud despite the fact his hair was plastered across his forehead, dripping down into his collar. He moved his hand — Yaniv rocked back, reflexively — and ripped the earrings from his ear and flung them at Yaniv. They bounced off his front and scattered across the ground. 

Rhahat was breathing hard. There was blood on his ear. He was pale and flushed at the same time, his lips tinged with blue. Yaniv bent down and picked up the earrings, struggling to grip at the fine gold. He expected to feel Rhahat's anger turn into contempt, as he watched Yaniv scrabble around in the dirt, but instead it drained away completely, replaced by tiredness and something akin to regret. 

For a long moment there was no sound but the rain pounding on the ground outside.

"Where are we?" Rhahat said. His voice was thready, carrying a deep weariness.

"I don't know," Yaniv said, tucking the earrings into his pocket and sinking to the ground. "Almost to the Jehan border."

"Still in Kur, then," Rhahat said, following Yaniv to the ground. He leaned against the wall and drew his hood down, turning his head. He searched through his hair with his fingers, seeking the end of his braid and squeezing the water out before untying it and struggling to draw his fingers through it. Yaniv watched him do so, unable to look away as the last of the fading light gleamed on his hair. 

Rhahat's hair was hopelessly tangled into a terrible mess. Yaniv wished for a torch or candle to watch the movement of Rhahat's hands ceaselessly yanking at the tangle. He made a noise, unable to work out the knots. 

Frustration was mounting at the back of Yaniv's mind — he was so _sick_ of being able to feel what Rhahat was feeling, unable to tell whose feelings were whose until both of them began to boil over, forcing him to bite his tongue until he could taste blood. Rhahat was still struggling fruitlessly, wrenching his hair until Yaniv cringed in sympathy, unable to force it aside. 

"Let me," Yaniv said, drawing his knife. Rhahat looked across at the soft sound of it being unsheathed, eyes wary, hands going still at his neck. Tension thrummed tight in the air.

"Let you what," Rhahat said, eyes narrowed down towards the knife in Yaniv's hand. 

"Let me help," Yaniv said. "You'll never get that untangled."

"Does your help involve cutting my throat?"

"What — _no_," Yaniv said. Rhahat laughed, brittle-edged. Yaniv wasn't sure at all whether the question had truly been a joke or not. It was likely _all _a joke, a bait to get him to respond. 

Rhahat nodded and turned his head to the side, baring his neck. Yaniv got up and shuffled over. He briefly loomed over Rhahat, meeting his eyes, and settled behind him. Tension radiated from Rhahat's body; he could tell even without the sensation of his mind. It made Yaniv stay his hand, just for a moment, instead using his free hand to gather Rhahat's hair off the nape of his neck. 

Rhahat's thoughts were curiously still. The timbre of his breathing had changed as well, from what Yaniv could hear under the shush of the rain outside. There was a little rasp to it, a catch. He wasn't sure, but he didn't think it was fear. 

Yaniv's blade sheared through the hair effortlessly.. Rhahat's head lifted, freed from the heavy, inert weight of the braid. It dragged down Yaniv's hand. It must have taken years to grow, but Rhahat didn't seem to hold any sentiment towards it. Yaniv spent a while trimming the edges, neatening everything around Rhahat's ears as best as he could, which was not well, until the light died and he could no longer see what he was doing.

"Thank you," Rhahat said, brushing at the back of his neck. Yaniv moved away. From the dim moonlight that peeped between the rainclouds, Yaniv could see Rhahat's face was a mix of vulnerability and sharpness, his pointed chin and full mouth unlike any Jehan. No room for scars, Yaniv thought, keeping it to himself. 

Rhahat was watching him. He raised his head. "Fair's fair," he said. 

"What do you mean?"

"I let you do something to me," he said, jutting his chin out as if daring Yaniv to say no. "Let me do something to you."

"You want to cut my hair?"

"No," Rhahat said, and he reached over and took the knife from Yaniv's hand, their fingers brushing. Rhahat's hand was stiff and cold as ice. Yaniv fought the urge to chafe at it, and relinquished the knife, slowly, watching for Rhahat to make a sudden move. He'd win any fight between them, he was sure, even though Rhahat had never seemed intimidated by him. 

It seemed Rhahat was right about him in some way; he was a fool. Fool enough to have let this go on so long, but also to relinquish his weapon into the hand of a Miran, especially one who was looking up at him with gently amused eyes. The bond was humming in the back of his mind. He couldn't decide if it was prompting his thoughts, and the lack of clarity made his gut unsettled, his instincts clouded. 

But he could still hear Rhahat's insults ringing in the back of his mind. _Fool. Coward._ If he couldn't prove one to be false, he could prove the other.

"What are you going to do?" 

"Are you asking if I'm going to cut _your _throat?" Rhahat said, testing the knife's sharpness on his thumb. 

"No," Yaniv said. 

"Why not?" Rhahat said. "Don't you think I'm capable?" 

"Because you don't know where you are," Yaniv said. "If you wanted to die in Kur alone, you could have done it yourself by now." He bit his tongue — it was close to what he had said to Rhahat before to make him so angry, but this time Rhahat smiled and ducked his head, looking like his amusement had caught him by surprise as much as it had Yaniv. 

"Maybe you are a person in there," he said, and before Yaniv could retort, he extended a beckoning hand that brooked no argument, reaching out for Yaniv's wrist. "I need to test my healing on you."

"Yes," Yaniv said, and his blood began to pound in his ears. What had he agreed to — _why_ had he agreed so easily? Was Rhahat doing something to him? Controlling his mind? He couldn't think of a single other reason why he would be so stupid. 

Rhahat didn't move, as if he wanted to soak the moment in. Yaniv didn't know if it was because of his capitulation or something else. This made Yaniv more nervous than if Rhahat had leaned over and cut his throat, mostly because of the way Rhahat was looking at him, head cocked, considering. 

The rain was slowing from a torrent to a shower, a too-bright shaft of moonlight poking into the dark rock. It made the knife shine, the coiled chain on the ground between them glow, and Rhahat's eyes gleam. Yaniv's mouth was dry. He swallowed. 

Rhahat took his cloak off, freeing his arms, and moved closer to Yaniv, whose skin prickled with anticipation. It went against all his instincts to sit there and allow Rhahat to reach out and take his wrist, his fingers still cold, turning Yaniv's hand up. 

Rhahat flicked the knife out over Yaniv's palm. The shallow cut stung, drops of blood welling against Yaniv’s skin. Rhahat pressed his thumb against Yaniv's palm, his cool hands a stark contrast to the warmth of Yaniv's flesh. Even their hands were different, Yaniv's calloused and rough with use of the sword, Rhahat's soft, even though now there was dirt under his nails.

Another slow moment passed where Rhahat just looked down at him, and then heat flared, the edges of the cut pulling together with that same sting, not even painful enough to make Yaniv catch his breath.

"Well?" Yaniv said, and made to pull his hand back from Rhahat, who tightened his grip, keeping Yaniv's hand pulled closer to him. 

"One moment," he said. "Did you feel that?"

"You cut me," Yaniv said, slowly.

"No," Rhahat said. "Did you feel it when I healed you?"

"Yes," Yaniv said, and made another move to retrieve his hand. Rhahat let it go this time, and it slid free of his cool grip. 

"Something isn't right," Rhahat said, but didn't elaborate, staring down at his hand. His other twisted at the cuff around his wrist, making the chain push and pull in sympathy. 

Yaniv folded his hand closed, rubbing along the line where Rhahat had cut him and left nothing. He reached up and touched his scars, running his fingertips down his cheeks. 

"Let me try something else," Rhahat said. It wasn't enough of a question for Yaniv's liking, but part of him just wanted to see what Rhahat would do next, whether it would reveal anything that he was trying to keep hidden behind that Miran facade. The challenge still hung in the air, unspoken, and he didn't want to back down, not to Mira. 

Rhahat clambered around Yaniv until he sat behind him — Yaniv realised with a shock that he had lost track of the knife. It could be in Rhahat's hand, in his pocket — it could be about to be in his side. That was the first lesson anyone learned and Rhahat had managed to make him forget it in seconds. He didn't understand _why_. 

Cool fingers brushed against the nape of his neck. He flinched and felt Rhahat smile, amusement filtering down the link. It was a test, then. It had to be. Everything Rhahat did was some kind of test to provoke him. He rolled his shoulders and tried to stay still — was this punishment for what he had said outside? 

Rhahat pulled Yaniv's coat back and halfway down his arms, then his shirt collar, until Yaniv's bare skin was exposed to the chill night air. 

"Does it hurt," Rhahat said, voice low, "when I heal you?"

His breath was warm against Yaniv's skin. "Yes," he said. Rhahat's fingers stilled, their weight briefly resting on the curve of his neck, still cool, making him shiver. 

"It does?" Rhahat said, mostly to himself. He was closer than Yaniv had expected him to come, closer than anyone alive had been to Yaniv in a long time. He stopped himself from flinching by centering himself, focusing on the rush of water outside, the steady rhythm of Rhahat's breath. 

Yaniv had to fight to keep still, his mind whirling, trying to figure out what Rhahat was going to do. It was an attempt to humiliate him, to get him to beg to get out of whatever Rhahat was trying to do — it had to be. There was no other motive for a Miran. The link swelled again, a loud wave crashing down over his mind, twinned with pressure. He clenched his teeth and let it wash over him until everything was quiet again. 

Rhahat muttered something in Miran.

"What?"

"Nothing," Rhahat said. 

And nothing happened for a long moment. He felt Rhahat shift his weight, the stir of his warm breath growing closer, the soft sound of him licking his lips. Yaniv's thoughts seemed to be shrinking, growing quiet and distant. Even the river seemed to be fading away. The only live points of contact on his body were Rhahat's fingers, the blunt pressure of his nails. Rhahat was leaning forward; he could feel it in the shift of his weight, the slight scrape. 

Something hot and wet touched Yaniv and he flinched, but not soon enough to escape pain — the pain slicing into the muscle of his shoulder. He yelped, tried to shake free of the pain, but there was no pulling free. Had he been cut? It was two sets of pressure, one sharp and one blunt, the pain bringing a shock of clarity to his mind. It was Rhahat, Rhahat's teeth sinking into his shoulder, breaking skin, pushing into muscle. 

How — what — he flinched forward to pull free, but Rhahat's hands flew up and steadied him. Yaniv shivered, his muscles tense, imagining Rhahat's teeth, his fucking sharp teeth shredding through his skin. Worse than that, he could feel the heat of Rhahat's mouth, the wetness of his tongue. The hard clamp of pressure was unbearable; the tightness of Rhahat's jaw had to be painful, like he was trying to make his teeth meet in the middle.

He groaned with pain, his own teeth gritted together. He could feel hot, wet blood trickling down, pooling at his collarbone. Rhahat released him, his lips brushing over Yaniv's skin. 

Rhahat covered the wound with his hand, warm with blood, then _hot _with healing, a cauterising flame, burning him from the inside out. It was that same sharp and dull pain in reverse, until the warmth faded and his flesh was whole again. 

He couldn't believe it — couldn't believe that Rhahat had _bitten him_, not truly, until his fingers were slipping in his own blood, tangling with Rhahat's. There was nothing but unbroken skin beneath. Nothing to prove anything had happened. 

"Did that hurt," Rhahat asked, voice low enough that Yaniv felt it rumbling against his back, in Rhahat's fingers still resting against him. "Before and after?"

"Yes," Yaniv said, and his voice was ragged, mind rattled and body vibrating with the memory of pain, the aches of undone wounds. 

"Again," Rhahat said. "Let me do it again." His tone was overeager, voice breathless. He would have Yaniv's blood in his teeth, against his tongue. It made Yaniv's stomach roil to think about it. He closed his eyes. This was some kind of Miran torture, but that didn't explain why his blood was running hot, his body feeling light and strange. He felt like he was falling, like he might lean back against Rhahat just to be on solid ground. Showing that kind of weakness could not happen.

"No," Yaniv said. His fingers were still twined with Rhahat's, his blood cooling against them. The sensation was alien, Rhahat's thumb gently sweeping over his back. He couldn't remember the last time he had been touched with anything approaching kindness. It felt more foreign than anything else that had happened, even being marked with no evidence. Rhahat had done nothing but attack him with a sharp-edged tongue, but now there was a gentle touch in each of his movements, his hands warmed from their contact and the healing. It made Yaniv shiver, lightly, goosebumps rising on his arms. Rhahat's feelings were muted down the bond, curiosity and something else that Yaniv couldn't define. 

Rhahat was expecting him to back down — he wanted to think of Yaniv as a coward. Yaniv wouldn't allow it. He let his hand fall away, baring his neck to Rhahat's teeth. He felt again the warmth and shift of Rhahat's weight. The bite this time was different because he knew the pain that was coming — he was familiar with it, both the dull press and the jagged slice that followed. He knew now what Rhahat's teeth felt like, each individual one, and it wasn't overwhelming. 

The pain flowed over him rather than tearing through him, allowing him to process every sensation: Rhahat's hand braced on Yaniv's waist, just above the crest of his hip, the occasional brush of Rhahat's drawn-back lips against his skin. He could feel Rhahat's breath against his wet shoulder, hear the muffled sound of his breathing. It went on for twice as long as before, the sensation changing to something indistinct, almost approaching the edge of pleasure. He was breaking through it, overcoming it through sheer resilience. When Rhahat pulled back, Yaniv rocked back with him, unconscious of the movement until it was complete. 

Rhahat's hand fit back over the bite and held tight, pinching against the bone hard enough to make Yaniv flinch. His blood was rolling down his shoulder in fat drops. The wound closed with that same cauterising heat, the pain unspooling in reverse, making him shudder. 

His weight was resting on Rhahat, muscles weak and lax, unable to move. Sensations were warring inside his body. He couldn't think — a muscle jumped in his shoulder. He had been weak and left himself open. He was shaking, his nerves jangling. Betrayal welled inside him, a confusing sensation. Yaniv had agreed to this, but the vulnerability couldn't be sated by facts. He reached up again to feel unbroken skin, encountering just slick blood. Not even Rhahat's fingers now. He could feel nothing except the fading heat of blood on his skin, the only sound his harsh breath. Cold wind crept over his neck, sliding down into his coat. He shuddered once more, feeling suddenly alone, despite the fact Rhahat was still right behind him. 

The world was faded, grey and dark. He was trembling. He had to hide it from Rhahat. His response was nothing. His pain was nothing, along with the warmth that had flooded his body with the second bite. He had failed the challenge — it must have all been a test that Rhahat had devised for him. Every reaction that he had would be going into Rhahat's memory, to report back to the Miran commanders. This is what you can use to break a Jehan. This is what you can use to _be _a Jehan. It had taken seconds for him to capitulate. 

It had to be a test to see if Yaniv could feel him through the link, but he didn't know if he had given himself away or not. Rhahat had done _something_ to him in the second bite, something to make the pain feel — different. Some trick of Miran magic to poison his mind and body. But he had no mark on his neck. No one would ever believe him. 

Rhahat wet his handkerchief from his water canteen and dragged it over Yaniv's shoulder, dipping down beneath his shirt. He handed it to Yaniv, who finished cleaning himself, the cold cloth against his skin raising goosebumps and doing nothing to quell his tremors. The handkerchief was dark and wet with blood.

Rhahat was shrugging back into his cloak, watching Yaniv from the corner of his eye, head bent. Yaniv turned away towards the mouth of the niche, gazing out into the rain and night. "You should sleep," he said, and his voice sounded unlike his own, half-cracked with pain and weariness. He swallowed his words and coughed, trying to clear his throat. Rhahat's lips quirked, half-smiling, and Yaniv tried to breathe steady, tried to _think_ steady. His voice didn't wobble — that was not who he was.

"Are you cold?" Rhahat said.

"No," Yaniv said and then said it again, trying to put strength back into his tone. "No, I'm not."

"I am," Rhahat said, coming around so they were side by side again. Yaniv couldn't meet his eye. He expected to see blood around his mouth, dripping down his neck, but there was nothing; he was clean. That half-smile still quirked his lips, laughing at Yaniv as a private joke. "My cloak helped you last night."

Yaniv tried not to react, but his eyes widened; he hadn't realised that Rhahat had noticed his appropriation of his cloak. Rhahat was watching him more closely than he had ever thought, even in his sleep. 

Rhahat drew in a deep breath and sighed, a shiver apparent in the movement. It didn't feel right to Yaniv — it felt manufactured. Everything Rhahat did felt like a manipulation, but Yaniv felt like he was beginning to learn how to read through it. He ought to push Rhahat away — ought to push him into the rain, the river, but he had to admit that he needed Rhahat as much as Rhahat needed him, for the sake of Jehan. 

Rhahat was right about something else, too. The temperature was dropping now that he was coming back to himself. The rain outside was taking on a distinctly frozen timbre, and he could truly feel Rhahat's chill through the link, no matter how much he didn't want to pay attention to it. 

Rhahat shuffled closer. His cloak had dried out, mostly, and when he offered a corner, Yaniv took it, pulling it over his legs. The warmth of it had to be magic, or just good weaving, because it warmed him right away, the thick fabric softer than he expected. Rhahat moved closer once more, until Yaniv could feel the warmth of his slight body.

The thing that rankled Yaniv the most was that Rhahat was _right_ that warmth was the most important thing to survive at night. He knew better than most how to survive in the open, especially in winter, so it was stupid to deny himself warmth where it could be found. If only — if only it wasn't found from a Miran, he thought, cursing Rhahat's name. 

Rhahat just laid his head on his crooked knees and looked up at Yaniv with a canny look in his eyes that Yaniv didn't like one bit. It spoke to him of secrets and spies, especially when it came from an unmarked face. 

"You'd rather freeze to death," Rhahat said. 

When had Rhahat realised that Yaniv couldn't back down from a challenge? Yaniv grunted an acknowledgement. He shored himself right up to Rhahat, their hips bumping, Rhahat letting out a soft noise of surprise. 

Rhahat raised his head and ran his fingers through his hair, stopping abruptly when they came up short on his neck. Yaniv didn't like being so close to him, close enough in the dim moonlight to see the long lashes that framed his eyes, close enough to see the little marks on his bottom lip where his teeth had dug in unconsciously. Yaniv tore his eyes away. 

Clouds hid the moon again, plunging them into darkness. Their bodies were close enough that it made Yaniv feel restless, wanting to shift his weight and move away. But Rhahat was right. It was practical to share warmth. It was — necessary. Yaniv pulled the cloak further over his body, until they were both huddled under it, the shared warmth spreading all the way down to his fingers and toes. Rhahat sighed and leaned against Yaniv's shoulder, the sudden, slight weight of him startling Yaniv.

"You don't mind if I sleep first?" Rhahat said, tongue thick with sleep, eyes half-closed. The heat from his forehead was almost too warm, blazing through Yaniv's coat and onto his shoulder. 

"I'll wake you soon," Yaniv said, leaning his head against the wall of the cave. There was a gentle sense of recalcitrance humming from Rhahat, not enough to say _you won't_, but enough to think it. Yaniv felt him slip into sleep immediately. The way he could just do that baffled Yaniv, but when he thought about it from a Miran's perspective, it made sense. They were always protected. They never had to worry about attacks in the night. 

Slowly, he realised that while Rhahat had been — testing him, he hadn't felt a single thought from his mind, whether it had been the healing he had been testing, or Yaniv, or both. The brittle-white chain that linked them was dull in the scant moonlight. He was tired of looking at it.

Yaniv tried to remain vigilant, eyes fixed on the dark, ears straining to hear anything above the rushing of the river, the icy rain against the rock. It was difficult to forget the threat of a beating for anyone found asleep on watch, but at a soft voice in the dark, he woke without the memory of having fallen asleep, finding himself in the hazy half-light, his face cold and sore against the stone. There was another soft noise behind him. He could sense no dream from Rhahat — he was awake, but there were still no thoughts, his mind a hot and confused mess. 

When he turned his stiff neck, he could see Rhahat's brow was furrowed with some mysterious effort. He was muttering something in Miran that Yaniv could barely hear, let alone understand. He knew precious few words of Miran, mostly _hello_, _goodbye,_ various orders and insults. None of them were the words passing Rhahat's feverish lips, when he bent his head to listen. The sound of them unsettled him, dark with vitriol. It made him unsure of what Rhahat was seeing behind the veil of delirium. 

There were beads of sweat on Rhahat’s forehead, but not from a natural heat. The stone beneath him was cold to the touch. It had drained Yaniv's body of warmth while he slept, even curled into Rhahat's cloak. 

It took two or three attempts to reach out and rest his hand on Rhahat's forehead; his fingers kept closing on the way. It was hot — hot enough to scald. It was damp, too — not just damp. His hair was soaked with sweat, wet enough that Yaniv could see the gleam of it even in the dawn light. Yaniv shook him by the shoulder gently. 

Rhahat did not wake or respond, except to keep muttering in Miran. His eyes were just open enough that Yaniv could see the bottom curve of his iris, steel grey and glassy. His heart was fluttering in his neck; there were high spots of colour blooming on his cheeks. 

Yaniv set his jaw and took to fruitlessly moving the chain back and forth up his wrist, twisting the cuff and watching the chain move across Rhahat's wrist too. He wished it would snap. Or it could be used to his advantage, he thought, trying to push his mind across the link to meet Rhahat's, but there was nothing. Not hidden, not scheming, but empty, a barren void with cracked ground. That scared him. He didn't know what to do about that. He sat back on his haunches and considered. It felt like he was approaching a delicate problem with a hammer. 

Yaniv sighed. He felt no surprise that Rhahat was feverish. He had seen many men fall ill on the march from bad food, bad water, but mostly from overexertion, long days and nights with little sleep. That was surely what was afflicting Rhahat, constantly pushing himself beyond his means, mostly because his means seemed to be so meagre. It felt fair to say because Yaniv’s own reserves of energy were depleted. There was nothing left inside him except irritation and resignation. 

He knelt and awkwardly arranged Rhahat onto his back, his body groaning, muscles stiff and sore. Rhahat was a slight, warm weight against his back. He lifted with more force than was necessary, expecting the burden of one of his countrymen. Did Mira not feed their soldiers? They certainly had enough food to weather any siege or famine — food from Jehan's table. Rhahat's head lolled against Yaniv's neck, the burning skin pressing against his own. 

The air outside the niche was stingingly cold against Yaniv’s face, chilling the sweat on his skin. The humidity from the river rolled over him, the faint spray settling like dew on his cloak. He set his teeth. A brief moment of dizziness struck him, sending him stumbling to one side, foot twisting and sliding on the slick rocks. He recovered his step because he had to, wrenching himself back towards the narrow path. The rain had frozen in the peak of night, leaving the ground thinly sheened in ice, the winter grass and reeds each outlined in an individual casing of ice. Yaniv's breath was a heavy cloud that lingered in the air. Again, he was grateful for what heat Rhahat offered, his cloak twined around both of them. 

He couldn't remember the last time he had had a full belly and a night's rest. He wasn't sure if it had ever happened. Rhahat's weight, although slight, added another burden to each step, but he had made a promise. His promises were almost all he had left to give. Breaking it would be like breaking his own arm. 

It wasn't what he was meant to be thinking about, he knew. It was the information — any Jehan commander would accept that he had done it for the information. That was what should be urging his steps, but it left a bitter taste at the back of his throat. It was Miran information going to Mira. It didn't have anything to do with him at all. Better to think of it as a promise, as an oath made to Rhahat. He wouldn't end up with an oathbreaker's scar across his face, marking him to anyone that looked at him. If he had nothing by the end of this journey, he would still have his scars. That would never be one of them. That was something any Jehan could understand. 

Rhahat wouldn't — Yaniv could envision the confusion on his face if he tried to explain it, eyes narrowed, head cocked to the side. Mirans didn't carry anything with them, wouldn't think twice if they laid eyes on a Jehan's face marked as an oathbreaker. 

Not that anyone would ever know if he left Rhahat here. That is, if he worked up the courage to cut off Rhahat's hand to free himself. Bile rose at the back of his throat at the thought, at imagining the noise of sword against bone. 

Rhahat said something in Miran, startling Yaniv. Could he sense what Yaniv was thinking, even while delirious? 

Only Rhahat could tell him where to deliver the letter, let alone what it said — if he ever would. Maybe it would be for the better if he didn't. Ignorance was better than than suspecting — or knowing, even — that the letter would damage Jehan, destroy the alliance and lay waste to his home. Miran cruelty would definitely extend far enough to make him carry a letter to doom his own nation. Maybe it was dissolving the alliance, surrendering Jehan to Kur as a sacrifice to sate Kur's hunger. He had no doubts that Mira would be that stupid, that arrogant to think it would stave off Kur's appetite for war. Where he had been born, lived, the cabin he had shaped from wood, born from his own hands, the particular stillness of a winter morning when his feet hit the cold floorboards — it would all be gone. It would be Kur. 

Or perhaps it would be a different flavour of Miran treachery, naming a Jehan as the traitor to the alliance. They would use it as an excuse — say Jehan had forced their hand and needed to be taken control of. It would become Mira. 

Rhahat was a bad liar — that was one thing Yaniv knew as truth. He would be a bad liar even if Yaniv couldn't feel his thoughts, judging by the way he had first acted when they had met. He talked too much or not at all, and couldn't resist needling Yaniv when it would be better to hold his tongue. Yaniv wasn't sure if Rhahat could lie effectively enough to conceal what was in the letter, but he had to expect it from a Miran. It would be foolish not to. 

Rhahat was slipping. Yaniv took a second to hoist him upwards, sword banging painfully against his thigh. The chain was tangling around the hilt and pulling tight every few steps, and the banks of the river were growing more treacherous, until he was forced to ascend back to the top. Fortunately — the only fortune that had blessed him in days — the ground above was turning from the edge of the plains back into rocky hills, scrub brush and scattered trees breaking up the landscape. Behind all that, the looming range of mountains made his heart quicken and eased just a modicum of tension in his bones. 

They looked so close now — the mountains that cast a shadow on the world. That was home. Home was somewhere in the blue, snow-dusted peaks and valleys, dark pines clustered together and thrusting up to pierce the low cloud, mountains high enough that sometimes it felt like you could reach up and touch the sky. He couldn't pick it out from here; he didn't know the peaks from this side. Everything was backwards and unfamiliar, but the one constant was the tug on the flesh of his heart, the physical pull towards the mountain. It made Rhahat seem light upon his back, the pain in his feet fade, the growling of his belly quieten. 

The ground was much like the rest of Kur, retreating into itself and preparing for a covering of snow. Everything was brown and half-frozen, covered in damp mud from the rain that was turning into hard-edged ice. There were a few green sprigs remaining, sheltered under the roots of a cedar sapling. Yaniv knelt, getting tangled in the chain and sword, but managed to pick them from the stem, the scent of sweetmint blooming in the air. He chewed them for as long as possible, the flavour fading from overwhelming sharpness to nothing at all, until he had to swallow. It wasn't enough to make even a scratch in his hunger, but it would have to do.

An hour passed as he trudged — maybe more. Rhahat was growing heavier with each step, his Miran muttering turning into soft sighs with just a suggestion of syllables. Soon Yaniv's feet were dragging, pausing every few steps to hitch Rhahat further up his back. Another few hours — the sun was standing directly above him, his shadow a pool underneath him. The mountains had gotten no closer. He had to stop, crouching to let Rhahat down on the damp ground, his cloak growing dark from dew. 

There was something in the pocket of Rhahat’s cloak, a crumpled corner of waxed paper poking out of a handkerchief. Yaniv couldn't help himself. He reached out and teased at the corner of the paper until it was out of the pocket, a little packet of biscuits, mostly crushed into pieces. He put a fragment into his mouth; it was savoury and sharp with herbs to mask the dry texture, but just the flavour was enough before he was bolting the rest of them down, licking his fingers and then swallowing water until his canteen was nothing but dregs. 

Something else was in the pocket — a knife no longer than Yaniv's hands, a little silver thing with an ornate sheath with a blade so thin it was almost flat, something he might expect to see in a lady's glove, not a soldier's pocket. 

In the other pocket was the letter. It was still a mystery to him, even with its broken seal. The characters inside ran up and down the page incomprehensibly, the colours melding together in front of his tired eyes. They meant nothing to him. Whether the colours indicated different words, sounds, meanings was not apparent. It was useless. 

,He knew he should place it back in Rhahat's coat, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He didn't like flying blind. Rhahat's elusiveness only made him feel worse — if he was lying, it had to be something particularly bad if he wouldn't even use it against Yaniv. Rhahat's jibe about no Jehans learning Miran was belatedly striking home. Every stroke of the Miran writing was an affront to him. Surely he should have at least learned the character for Jehan. He folded it more savagely than it deserved, crumpling the edges.

He folded the wax paper and slid it back into Rhahat's pocket, and shook the cloth out. Rhahat stirred. Yaniv stilled, but Rhahat's eyes didn't open further than the minimum, just so Yaniv could see the bottom sliver of his grey eyes, like a fingernail moon. They rolled back into his head as Yaniv watched, his hands opening and closing, shifting restlessly. Yaniv reached out to touch his mind again, bracing himself for what he had felt before. It was still an oppressive heat that crawled across his skin, but there was something else to it, a whisper that made Yaniv strain to hear, distant syllables of Miran. Rhahat smiled, his eyes sliding closed again. 

Yaniv rocked back on his heels, unsettled. He wetted the cloth from Rhahat's canteen and bound it around Rhahat's forehead, drops sliding down his cheeks like tears. He fixed Rhahat's cloak and hoisted him up again, his arms lax over Yaniv's shoulders, now still and silent through every jolt and misstep. 

Yaniv couldn't stop thoughts from creeping in amongst the silence, without Rhahat's commentary to interrupt. He couldn't stop one thought in particular that was crowding up in his mind, heavier than Rhahat's weight. What if he never woke up? What if Rhahat slumbered on into the night, breathing against Yaniv's neck — or not. 

He didn't know where he was going. He didn't know what he would find when he got there. Perhaps he would be killed on sight for approaching a Miran base he was meant to know nothing about. As long as he could feel Rhahat's heart beating against his back, he could quiet those thoughts for a time. Walking into a Miran camp with Rhahat in front of him to block the swords and arrows, he might last longer than a few seconds. Although, with the amount of shit that Rhahat talked in Jehan, Yaniv was mildly horrified by how awful he would be in his native tongue. But at least he _could_ talk to them in a way that they would understand and respect. It was true that all Mirans thought they spoke Jehan, but if Rhahat to speak to them in Miran, it was infinitely preferable. No Mirans thinking they were lowering themselves to his level just to say hello. Rhahat could engage in a battle of Miran wits with them, for all Yaniv cared, as long as the letter was delivered. 

A flash of colour caught his eye. He turned towards it instinctively. A sprig of berries was still clinging to a royan bush, dark and overripe, far beyond harvest time. The bush was tucked against a stand of birch trees, and it took some angling to bend down and strip it, Rhahat slipping dangerously, the heat of his forehead and the coldness of the cloth alternating against Yaniv’s neck. 

More time passed as he ventured ever further, shadows going from pools to long stretches. Walking became a trance, each step the same as the one before. When he stopped to rest, it felt the same as the rest before, the same ache in his arms, the same urge to drop Rhahat just to cease carrying him. Rhahat still showed no sign of waking; Yaniv could feel nothing from his mind except increasing pressure and heat. 

Walking was possible with his eyes closed, he found after a while, accompanied by the rattle of windblown branches, occasional snatches of birdsong, far away or accompanied by the flutter of wings. The haze of grey sleep drifted over him until he was snapping in and out of consciousness between the time he lifted his foot and placed it back on the ground again. 

Someone shouted right into his ear and Yaniv startled, wheeling on his feet. Skinny arms locked around his neck and wrenched him back, off balance. He fell back hard, twisting at the last second to land on his hip and avoid crushing Rhahat with his body. Pain lanced up his back and down his leg. He took a hit to the back of the head, a knee to his side before he twisted around, seeing only Rhahat, one arm still looped around Yaniv's neck. He wasn't awake — wasn't lucid, his eyes glassy, forehead wet with sweat. That same dark anger was there, directed to whoever he thought he was looking at. It made Yaniv shiver.

Yaniv choked for air as Rhahat tightened his arm again. It took both hands to force his arm away. Rhahat hit him in the side of his head, his ear ringing. Yaniv shouted something at him and Rhahat returned the favour in Miran, their voices overlapping. Who had taught Rhahat to fight like he'd been dragged behind a city tavern and rumbled for gold? 

"Stop it," Yaniv said, managing to pin Rhahat with his arm. Rhahat moved, weakly, said something in Miran that Yaniv almost understood, only because there were swear words in it, and then went still. Yaniv stopped himself from reaching down the link, wincing at the mere memory of how it had felt to touch Rhahat's mind. He touched his forehead instead, and found it slightly cooler, though whether it was from the cold cloth or the fever easing, he could not tell. 

Yaniv dripped water into Rhahat's mouth from his canteen and watched the motion of his throat swallowing. That was a good sign, at least. He got Rhahat up on his back again and hauled them both up to standing, his body protesting, his hip aching, not to mention his side. Rhahat was much, much more trouble than he was worth. 

Another shout — he turned his head back, trying to get another look at Rhahat's face. "Stop — " 

It wasn't Rhahat. His eyes were closed, mind quiet. The voice was behind him, the guttural syllables definitely not Miran. He turned, slowly, dreading what he would see. 

Two Kur soldiers, their grey uniforms blending into the dead grass and trees. Now that his attention was off Rhahat, he could smell smoke in the air and see the glow of their fire behind the trees, a blazing spark in an endless plain. He couldn't even raise his hands, caught up between Rhahat and the chain. 

The soldiers were barking orders at him in Kur. He could understand the basics, but not enough to put a full sentence together. Yaniv spoke the language of the soldier drawing his sword, the other with dagger in hand, stepping over the fire. But he couldn't do anything with Rhahat on his back. 

The closer Kur soldier had green eyes and a half-grown beard; looking at an unmarked face made Yaniv feel unsettled, as it always did. He looked almost as surprised as Yaniv did, now close enough for Yaniv to smell the scent of his sweat and soap, see his own wild eyes in the reflection of his sword. 

Yaniv let Rhahat slide down and off his back until he was a crumpled, leaning form against his legs.

"Stop," the soldier said. "Jehan."

Yaniv didn't know what to say. What words would keep him on this side of the sword? Nothing came to mind. All he could feel was a laugh boiling up from somewhere deep inside him at the pure absurdity of the situation, that he was going to die here, and that Rhahat wouldn't even be awake to see it. 

The soldier raised the sword and laid it against Yaniv's neck, the shock of the cold steel making him shiver, the threat becoming real and hard against the tendons of his neck. The point of the sword was far beyond his left ear; he couldn't follow it with his eye. His blood was thick in his neck. The edge was pressing right into the vein. 

"Where — " the soldier struggled for words " — Jehan?"

Yaniv swallowed, trying to bring some moisture into his mouth. "The mountains," he said, and went to point. The movement of his arm startled the soldier, and he pressed the sword harder against Yaniv's neck. He felt a scratch but no trickle of warmth. "It's north," he said, throat working against the hard pressure of the blade. "North. Mountains."

"No," the soldier said. 

"_No_?"

The second soldier barked something in Kur that Yaniv couldn't understand, a quick back and forth. There was no lapse of attention from the soldier with the sword, his eyes fixed on Yaniv, barely blinking. There was still no movement from Rhahat at his feet, but Yaniv wasn't sure if that was good or not. His crumpled form, his face pressed into the back of Yaniv's legs — he was just an injured Jehan, as far as they knew. 

They had come to a consensus. "Where are Jehan soldiers?" 

"I don't know," Yaniv said. 

Wrong answer — he knew it immediately. The sword at his neck was pulled away and the soldier gave him a sudden shove. He went backwards. The world flipped. The ground was hard and unforgiving. He landed on his back, flat, the shock of it sending him gasping for breath. 

He couldn't get his head oriented, lying on his back with his legs skewed over something — Rhahat. The soldier was pushing Rhahat over with a muddy boot — Yaniv moved. He didn't think. Just moved. Tried to get himself between Rhahat and the sword, but he was too late. The soldier blocked his movement with the blade, a barrier of steel between them, cleaving the ground just shy of the chain. 

"Mira," the soldier said. The other man's head came up, eyes bright with sudden attention. Kur filled the air again, quick, frantic words. The second soldier came around to look at Rhahat himself. He looked as tall as a tree from the ground, crouching down to pull at Rhahat's cloak. 

Yaniv bit his tongue, the inside of his cheek, anything to keep his expression still. It didn't matter. They went into his pockets — he recognised a few Kur words, but he couldn't follow anything except _Mira_, _Mira_, over and over again. The way they were looking at Rhahat — one even knelt to touch the chain. 

Helplessness wasn't a good fit on Yaniv. His whole body bristled at it, at the audacity, like the threat of the sword gave him any claim over the chain, over either one of them. Yaniv's fingers crept lower across his thigh until he could feel the cold metal of his sword against the back of his knuckles. The first soldier was still watching him, though his eyes occasionally dipped down to watch what the second was doing, and Yaniv's heart lurched every time he did, thinking _this is the chance_. But he did nothing. The blade was too close to Rhahat's neck; to slit it would be a single flick of the wrist. 

So he did nothing while the Kur soldier dipped his hand into the other pocket in Rhahat's cloak, retrieving the letter with a cursory glance. Yaniv pressed his teeth harder into his tongue as the soldier looked from the letter to his face and back again, turning it over and running his thumb over the edge of the wax seal.

The damned seal! The damned, accursed seal. The crest of some stupid Miran house pressed into black wax. How it hadn't been crumbled or crushed into a million pieces, melted from the heat of Rhahat's body, Yaniv would never know. He wished it had, because the way the Kur soldier's eyes widened when he saw it — that was enough. It had as good as killed them. 

The words between the soldiers had taken a different tone. The closer one had lost interest in Yaniv entirely; the far one was skimming the letter, lips pulled tight. Yaniv didn't know if they could read it or not, but it didn't matter.

His heart steadied. The world sharpened. He kicked out, hooking his foot around the blade and flicking it out of the Kur's grip, surging to his feet and drawing his own in the same movement, his blade flashing out and into the Kur's gut. He and Yaniv shared a shocked look — with the heavy stink of his blood in the air, the Kur looked like a scared rabbit caught on a spit. His eyes were pleading. Yaniv yanked the blade up, the harsh movement ripping the man open and freeing his sword in the same motion. The man collapsed, his grey uniform turning black with blood. 

The second scout was watching him, the letter hanging from his fingers. Blood had spattered the back of the paper. The scout took a step back; Yaniv took one forward. His stride was longer. His step ate more ground. The scout looked down, and stepped back once more. Yaniv followed — stopped. Arrested — pulled back at his wrist, still attached to the chain, to Rhahat — _bastard_! He grasped at Rhahat's wrist. 

The scout was more than a few paces away, turning to run. Yaniv couldn't think past the pounding of his heart, pulling on Rhahat's arm. Rhahat yelped, but as Yaniv tried to pull him up, Rhahat's legs buckled, his weight dragging Yaniv to a standstill. Yaniv grabbed at his arm, hard, and half-dragged Rhahat a few steps before he stumbled to a halt, unable to shift him with just one hand. Yaniv cursed and flung his sword, fruitlessly, pitching it down into the dirt. That was it, then. All he could do was watch the scout go.

A flash of light — movement below him. The scout shrieked and dropped the letter, doubling his pace and disappearing between the trees. Not before Yaniv saw the flash of dying sunlight on the little silver knife in his shoulder, the letter settling on the grass, light enough not to bend a blade. Shaky nerves and adrenaline were making their way down the link, Rhahat's mind torn between shock and a lingering ferocity that took Yaniv by surprise. 

He looked down; Rhahat looked up at him. He looked terrible, pale and flushed at the same time, eyes barely open, fluttering closed at every opportunity. But he still pulled himself up off the ground even if it took grabbing at Yaniv's arm to do so, briefly balancing against him. Yaniv wiped his sword on the dead man's coat and sheathed it. Rhahat was looking down at the corpse, but not with the flinching disgust that Yaniv expected, but something else, something he couldn't name. 

"Can you walk?"

"Yes," Rhahat said, hissing the syllable. He looked up, following the path of where the other soldier had gone. 

"Can you run?"

"I don't know," Rhahat said.

"We have to go," Yaniv said. "We have to go _now_." He set off, making it one full step before being pulled back again, Rhahat unmoving. "We have to — "

"Quiet," Rhahat said, and then, as Yaniv pulled on the chain, "wait, you fool." He stepped forward, the same way as the Kur soldier had run. Yaniv followed, his body itching with the urge to run, the urge to scoop Rhahat back onto his back and head for the mountain. "_Wait_." 

There was another copse of trees half a mile away, and as they waited and watched it, nothing happened at first. The wind stirred the branches of the trees, the dead grass — the letter, which Rhahat scooped up without taking his eyes off the distance. Movement — a black bird burst through the top of the tree and swung around, heading west. "That's it," Rhahat said. "We're fucked now." 

"I should have stopped him," Yaniv said, curling his hand into a fist. "I should have — "

"It doesn't matter now," Rhahat said. He was so calm that it put Yaniv's teeth on edge. "What happened? Where are we?" He swayed a little and reached out to brace himself on Yaniv's forearm. Yaniv tried to relax the tension in it, tried not to betray what he was feeling. One of Rhahat's hands was curled tight around the sheath of the little knife, so tight his knuckles were white and strained, the other pressing marks into Yaniv's arm. The difference between the solemnity of his voice and the stranglehold of his hand unsettled Yaniv; Rhahat sounded like someone who had accepted death. 

Yaniv reached down and uncurled Rhahat's fingers from the little sheath, tucking it back into his pocket, their fingers brushing together. Rhahat still felt warm, though not burning hot, and there was still a tremble in his hands.

"You were sick — are sick," Yaniv said, trying to get in front of whatever Rhahat was going to accuse him of. "I didn't know what to do except continue on."

Rhahat nodded, mouth thin. He rubbed at the cuff on his wrist, gazing into the middle distance. "I don't understand."

"I carried you," Yaniv said, unsure how to make it more clear. How did Rhahat _think_ they had gotten here, if not by Yaniv's effort. Magic?

"You must be exhausted," Rhahat said, but it sounded insincere. He didn't look up towards Yaniv, didn't move, still that curious, fixed-focus stare.

"It doesn't matter," Yaniv said, turning away. The fire was still burning itself to embers behind him, blood creeping along the ground towards it. There was an upended bowl, a half-open pack, a sheathed sword. He began to pick things up, closing the pack and swinging it up and onto his back.

"Of course it doesn't matter, " Rhahat said, suddenly. "You don't feel anything."

Yaniv bit back his response. Rhahat's fear was welling at the back of his mind again, like a dark, sweeping poison, a veil that covered his eyes. Rhahat pulled the chain to its maximum length and bent over the fallen Kur's body. Yaniv didn't turn to see what he was doing until he was done with his own task. 

Rhahat had taken the Kur soldier's boots off and was in the process of swapping them for his own thin leather shoes. Yaniv had never noticed them before, but they looked typically Miran, sewn with gold thread. He had never seen Rhahat's feet either, but he winced at the state of them, blood and blisters like a soldier breaking in his first pair of boots. Rhahat's face was impassive in the way Yaniv could recognise as someone hiding pain, even without it filtering down the link.

Rhahat tore strips from the Kur soldier's shirt and bound his feet, before putting his torn and bloodied stockings back on and sliding his feet into the Kur soldier's boots. Two days ago, Yaniv would have bet all the money he'd ever had that no Miran would ever bring themselves so low, let alone without complaining. 

"We don't know what he will report — a Miran and a Jehan fleeing a battle. It doesn't mean much. There must be other soldiers on the plains." The words sounded hollow even to his own ears; Rhahat barely acknowledged them. When he started off, Rhahat followed, his small, quick steps struggling to catch up, still not betraying any pain. 

"We could both pass as Miran," Rhahat said, catching up and raising his hand. "If you let me get rid of those scars."

Yaniv jerked back, hard enough to send Rhahat stumbling as well. They crashed into each other. He twisted away, determined to escape those questing fingers, until he realised Rhahat had dropped his hands, trying to pull away. The chain was tangled between them; it took a few moments to wrestle it apart. 

"I'd kill you for that," he said, breathing hard. Rhahat was laughing, a grating sound that rankled Yaniv even further. "It's unforgivable."

"Why," Rhahat said. His eyes were sparkling like it was a joke, the sensation of his mirth rippling against Yaniv's mind. 

"_Why_? And you think you know anything about us, just because you speak Jehan?"

"Well, you _don't _speak Mira and you think you know everything."

They started up again, Rhahat's breaths clouds that hung on the air. Yaniv frowned. "I know enough."

"Oh, from me? Most Mirans wouldn't consider me an example of anything."

"What does that mean?" 

"What does your face mean?" Rhahat countered, and he hated how Rhahat was enjoying this, enjoying mocking them. 

"It's private," Yaniv said. "For all the questions you don't answer, I think it's fine if I do the same." 

"It's on your _face,_" Rhahat said, increasing his pace again to try and get a better look at Yaniv. He turned away. 

Yaniv increased his pace in turn, letting silence be his answer. Looking up towards the mountains drove back Rhahat's jibes. The clouds were low and thick today, a sheet stretching across the sky, covering the highest peak and shielding it from view. His heart quickened. There was a way — there could be a way. 

"Can you hurry," he said. Rhahat must have recognised the urgency in his tone, because he straightened his back and followed Yaniv’s gaze forward to the mountains, although Yaniv was sure that Rhahat couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. Rhahat was panting, but he nodded, just once, firmly. "We have to hurry." 

Throwing a last glance over his shoulder, Yaniv nodded too, and they began to hasten, walking as fast as Rhahat could. Yaniv itched to burst into a run, to push his body to the limit. Rhahat was sickly, but Yaniv couldn't honestly say he felt much better. The soldier hadn't wheeled around to follow them. To Yaniv, that said he had decided something else was more important. 

No more trees dotted the plain between where they were and the mountains, leaving them fully vulnerable to any Kur scout that was near. Each step Yaniv took was paired with the thump of his heart and the crunch of dead grass below his feet. The terrain was swiftly changing around them as they approached the border, the beginning rise of Jehan's mountain range.

"We're going to climb that," Rhahat said.

"Not all of it," Yaniv said.

"Ah, of course," Rhahat said, half leaning on Yaniv again. "Not _all _of it." 

The trail they started up was little more than a goat track carved into the rock by use, dotted with tree stumps and scraggly bushes. The footing was uneven at best, often causing Rhahat to stumble. He was clinging onto the chain, but Yaniv didn't begrudge the pull on his arm. Yaniv was more surefooted, but his steps dragged, mind wandering, forcing himself to stay awake. He'd grown up on these mountains — not _this _mountain, but it still felt so familiar, the sting of the air on his face and the smell of rock and water. It was the closest he had come to relaxing since they had marched down the mountain to the border, where you could see the line of Kur soldiers, close enough to smell the pitch of their torches. It settled him to have his feet on familiar ground, even if they were only a few steps into Jehan. It alleviated his exhaustion just enough to keep him going. Rhahat's mind was equally exhausted behind the fizzing anxiety. 

The path's ascent was steady, the river dropping low beneath them until it made his stomach swing to look down. Rhahat was worse, crowding himself against the face of the mountain, occasionally kicking into his own ankles. 

A sound permeated into Yaniv's dull mind, a scraping, scattering of rocks. He whipped his head around — a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. There was something grey. Rhahat was gone — gone! His shock flooded Yaniv's mind. 

He was pulled hard to the side, slamming into a tree trunk, a crack of pain fracturing his side. The weight dragging him down was unbearable, the bones of his wrist screeching together as he grappled with the chain, wrapping both hands around it. It cut into his palms, slick with blood, shredding at his fingers.. He leaned back around the tree, letting the trunk take on some of the weight, and tried to draw a breath. Rhahat's terror was the only thing letting Yaniv know he was alive. 

He leaned around the trunk. It put him half out into the air, his heart thumping so hard his whole body was beating with it. He looked down. He forced himself to look down. Hard to focus. White rush of water. Brown, pale grey stone. Darker grey on the rocks — the body of a Kur soldier. The dark green of Rhahat's cloak fluttering against the edge of the cliff, hanging half on the chain and half caught in the exposed and crumbling roots of the tree. 

Yaniv's feet were sliding. He grit his teeth. Rocks were showering down on Rhahat, his nerveless fingers gripping at the base of the protruding roots. He was sliding one foot up, trying to brace himself. Yaniv wasn't sure if the roots would hold. If they slipped away, both of them would join that soldier. 

The top of Rhahat's head was almost close enough to touch Yaniv's foot. The chain normally felt too close; now it felt a hundred kilometres long. Rhahat was still moving. Yaniv tried to yell at him to stop. His mouth was too dry. There was no stopping. The trunk was shifting under their weight; each second that passed was another few centimeters towards it pulling free of the cliff altogether. Rhahat was swearing in Mira below him, his fear making Yaniv's stomach clench. It had to be done. It had to be done. 

He slid down as far as he could, one hand clinging to the tree, digging his fingers into the dry cracks of bark, soon damp with blood. Rhahat was struggling upwards, Yaniv's outstretched hand too low. Their fingers collided once. The trunk groaned, dirt and rocks giving way and dancing their way down to the river below. 

Yaniv grabbed the chain and pulled, Rhahat scrambling up, led by his wrist. Yaniv seized his hand, slicking it with blood, but his grip was firm, Rhahat's too. He pulled him up, pushing backwards off the tree, pulling Rhahat up onto firm ground. The tree was bent precariously, roots bulging up through the path, cracking and crumbling, the lightning-shock sound of splitting wood. 

He grabbed Rhahat by the collar and dragged him up further, scrambling backwards until they were a good distance up. The tree didn't fall, still clinging to its roots. 

All that Yaniv could hear was his own harsh breathing, Rhahat's panting somewhere distant. His mind was a blank blur — Rhahat's too — trying to reconcile the fact that he was alive. Rhahat was half on top of him. Yaniv could feel his heart beating like a jackrabbit and smell his own blood. He raised his hands and saw the lines, dark with blood. The gleam of bone deep within them that made bile rise at the back of his throat. 

Rhahat reached up and closed his hands around them, but the healing didn't come with a burn of heat, just a slight warmth. It took long minutes before his flesh was whole again. 

"We have to move," Yaniv said, when Rhahat was done.

"What — wait," Rhahat said, patting frantically around in his cloak. His hands were patchy with Yaniv's blood. His cloak was twisted around, but Rhahat found the letter, now dotted with the blood of two men. He tucked it back away with a sigh of relief. "I'm sure you're even less happy to be chained to me now," he said.

Yaniv frowned. "Do you think I only saved you because my life was in the balance too?"

Rhahat was silent, but offered an arched eyebrow, a crook at the corner of his lips. Yaniv had always considered his blood slow to boil, but it seemed like Rhahat could cause it to burn with the slightest provocation. _Damn Mira_, he thought, ignoring the fact that he'd heard worse every time he had to pass through the Miran camp, and it had all rolled off him then. 

"It was a poor joke, Yaniv," Rhahat said, and made to get up. "Don't take it so personally." 

The tree gave way from the path in a thunderous rush, ripping the entire root system out of the cliff and plunging to the rocks below, landing in the water with a splash so forceful that the spray leapt up half the height. Rhahat startled, head whipping around, grabbing painfully at Yaniv's hand like he thought it would prevent either of them from falling if the whole path went. But it hadn’t ripped much of the path out, leaving a gap that could be easily jumped over. 

"Was it the same soldier?" Yaniv asked.

"I don't know," Rhahat said. "He just — he grabbed me from behind." Rhahat leaned over, peering down towards the water. Yaniv's fingers were going numb from the strength of his grip, but he didn't complain until Rhahat had looked his fill down below. "I don't know," he said again, rocking back. "I can't tell."

"We have to move," Yaniv said, staring straight up into the sky. The cloud was the same as he had observed from below the mountain, heavy with snow. "There's a storm coming."

"How so," Rhahat said, twisting around to peer up into the white cloud. He was lying half across Yaniv's legs, digging his elbow into Yaniv's thigh as he pushed himself up to standing without pitching them both over the edge. 

"I can feel it," Yaniv said. Rhahat scoffed, but it was good-natured, his mouth quirking at the corners, no derision in the sound. Yaniv's hands felt hot with blood now that Rhahat's grip was gone, tingling with the renewed flow. His wrist was aching — Rhahat hadn't healed that. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed at his wrist. It could be dealt with later. His legs were shaking. He forced himself to move forward. Rhahat followed, two hands wrapped in the chain, close enough to be in danger of stepping on Yaniv's heels. Yaniv tried not to begrudge him. 

The air grew bitter and cold, the wind picking up hard enough to push them against the rock wall, cutting through Yaniv's clothes and right down to his body. Rhahat was wrapped in his cloak, almost nothing visible of him except the cloud of his breath. Finally, as the sun was about to dip behind the trees, they reached the plateau where the tops of the trees traced the bottoms of the clouds. Mist had settled, dewy over the grass and then thicker, so that Yaniv had to strain to see even a hundred metres in front of him. 

There was a structure — a cabin. No, the remains of one, ravaged by a fire, dark streaks of burnt wood where the fire had leapt up the walls. Kur. Yaniv didn't doubt it. It had been reduced to one room, walls barely standing, windows broken. Yaniv could picture it how it had been before, as clearly as if he had been there. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was, having to blink away the image of his own home burned by Kur, reduced to nothing, all of his work ashes and dust. He hissed, causing Rhahat to turn and look at him quizzically. It wasn't home — it wasn't even the right mountain. 

"We can rest here," he said.

"Are you mad?" Rhahat said. "We had an hour's head start, maybe two. They'll be here any minute and this will be the first place they look."

"No one is making it up that pass tonight," Yaniv said. "Especially if they have horses. Kur wouldn't try." 

"Because of the storm?" Rhahat said. "I don't feel anything. It's cold but — are you just feeling the cold?"

Yaniv wasn't sure how Rhahat _couldn't _feel it: the tension in the air like an overstretched string trembling. Not only that — hadn't he learned to trust Yaniv's intuition yet? He couldn't think of any more ways to prove himself. "This is Jehan," he said. "I know Jehan. I know what it feels like in these mountains when a blizzard is coming, and coming _fast_. Any Kur commander will know it too." 

Rhahat hesitated, then nodded, turning away to look back the way they'd come. No Kur force appeared in the minute or two that Rhahat silently watched, no soldier or hunting dog. He exhaled, slowly, some of the tension leaving his body, the chain going slack as he stepped closer and turned back to the cabin. Yaniv waited for Rhahat to feel distaste, to think — to think Jehan beneath him, refuse to stay in such a dismal, broken-down place. But there was nothing except a quiet contemplativeness. 

They approached the cabin slowly, Yaniv never releasing his sword, even though it pained his wrist to do so. It was clear and empty, more of a lean-to than a cabin now, the scorched walls beginning to crumble. A blessing — the roof was almost completely intact. He put down the Kur soldier's pack at the entrance and unbuckled his sword, preparing to sit. 

"Wait," Rhahat said. Yaniv was on his feet with his sword half drawn before he realised there was no accompanying fear, either in Rhahat’s voice or his mind. Rhahat was gazing at the little pond next to the house. "I want to wash."

"You want to _wash_?"

"Yes."

"Here? Now?"

"Yes," Rhahat said again, mildly, meeting Yaniv's eyes. Yaniv sighed. Rhahat reminded him of a preening bird, satisfied he had gotten his way. 

Clouds had gathered low, finally making good on their promise, heavy flakes that hung in the air for long seconds. They were mostly protected from the wind by the walls and the trees, the peak of the mountain on their left. The snow didn't deter Rhahat, who was single minded about the bath, removing his cloak and then untying his shirt at the shoulder and wrist. Yaniv watched for a moment — he hadn't thought about how Rhahat was used to the chain. His whole life convened around it.

"I'll have to cut yours," Rhahat said.

"Cut — "

"How else do you plan to get them off," Rhahat said, flat. "Are you going to just wear the same shirt — "

"Forever," Yaniv said, without thinking. Rhahat sighed, waited a few minutes while Yaniv thought of, and then dismissed, various ideas. Yaniv produced his boot knife and handed it over without complaint. He hadn't realised he was included in the wash, but Rhahat seemed determined. 

Rhahat stepped close and slipped the knife under the cuff of Yaniv's coat, slicing neatly through the fabric up to his collar. His shirt was subject to the same treatment. Yaniv looked down at his exposed flesh, where his wrist was red and swelling, wondering with a growing dread whether all his shirts would have to be like this from now on. Chained to Rhahat for the rest of his life. He'd probably try and cut his own hand off after a month. 

Rhahat took Yaniv's wrist in one hand and stared down at it. The healing came slow again, like Rhahat was mostly hoping it would happen rather than pushing his energy into it. Sweat was beading on Rhahat’s forehead despite the cold air, his hands shaking with effort. With his energy so low, Yaniv didn't dare tell him about the sharp pain in his side. A bath would be good — the cold water would numb the pain, not to mention how disgusting he was, still damp with sweat and his own blood.

Yaniv stripped down to his loincloth without ceremony — he was a soldier, after all — and stepped into the water. It was so cold his bones ached, and he could feel that ache in each one individually. He curled his toes as they went numb. The pond wasn't deep, but it was clear, under the patina of transparent ice that was thin enough to shatter just from his approach. Rhahat was lingering at the shore, arm raised to give Yaniv maximum range as he unwound the bandage on his foot. 

"It might be too cold for you."

"Nonsense," Rhahat said, charging in after him and causing a little wave to lap at Yaniv's ankles. He could feel the cold shock in his mind just as well as he could hear Rhahat's teeth start to chatter. He hissed in quiet sympathy, even though it secretly amused him. It was Rhahat's turn to rise to a challenge, but it was a _Jehan_ challenge, so of course he had underestimated it. 

Yaniv kept his back turned; it felt — respectful. He could feel how close or far away Rhahat was by the chain, hear him splashing and scrubbing in the water. Yaniv did his share of washing too, his skin stinging with the cold. Rhahat was quiet behind him, and his thoughts were warm and indistinct. Yaniv had no idea how he was finding anything warm to think about. Yaniv was the only warm thing here, and only by a sliver. 

The worst of the blood was off him now, haloing his feet in pale red water. It was still clinging to the hair there in ruby beads that glinted in the fading light. He swallowed, throat tight, and ignored the growing numbness in his legs as he scrubbed at his thigh, the muscles tight and sore. It was difficult to think of it as _his _blood; it felt like it should be the Kur soldier's instead.

"Have you," Rhahat said, slowly, the slight movements he was making sending little ripples over the surface of the pond, "ever killed before?"

"What do you think," Yaniv said, fighting to keep the venom from his tone. There was no reason for Rhahat to ask, and especially not _now_, directing the question to Yaniv's naked back. Had he pushed past the barrier somehow to Yaniv's thoughts? But the barrier felt intact and strong.

"I think yes," Rhahat said. "Not counting the Kur soldier. I mean before."

"Yes," Yaniv said. "And you?"

"Not counting my Kur soldier?"

"You didn't kill him. He fell."

Rhahat hummed and bent to splash water on his face, the chill of it filtering down the bond. "What do you think, then?"

"I think no," Yaniv said. He couldn't conceive of Rhahat killing someone, not mentally, not physically. He was too small and not much of a soldier. He had none of the mental fortitude of a man who killed. 

Rhahat made a little noise of assent. "Although, there's only two ways to get out of this chain," he said. "So you can think about that."

Yaniv didn't know what to make of that comment. Rhahat was probably still just trying to get a rise out of him. He staggered back to shore and hastily got dressed, trying to rub some heat into his limbs. Rhahat followed at a more sedate pace, lingering at the water's edge as long as the chain allowed. They used Yaniv's coat to dry themselves and then headed inside, Yaniv grabbing the Kur pack. 

There was work to do inside. It was difficult to move around in the narrow space, but Yaniv covered the broken window with his coat before attending to the fireplace. There was flint and tinder in his pocket, and soon there was a little blaze crackling in the fireplace.

"It's almost cheerful," Rhahat said, wry. Yaniv ignored it. The Kur soldier's pack was well made, complete with a bedroll and change of uniform. There was a metal box packed at the bottom, next to a flask. "Food," Rhahat said, reverentially, and Yaniv popped the latch.

It wasn't much. A hard, dry biscuit and cheese, pickled vegetables, smoked meat and a small flask of bitter tea. He could feel Rhahat's hunger as he divided up the food, a yawning chasm demanding satiation. He allocated more to Rhahat than himself, remembering at the last second the berries in his pocket, miraculously uncrushed. Rhahat watched with single-minded determination, his eyes following Yaniv's hands, but when he reached out to gather the pieces, he left the hard bread behind.

"Take it," Yaniv said. "You've been ill."

Rhahat hesitated, his hand suspended in the air. "You had to carry me."

"I ate the biscuits from your pocket," Yaniv said, in a rush, flushing. Rhahat furrowed his brows.

"I was saving those."

"Is this not a special enough occasion?"

Rhahat looked at Yaniv and then away, reaching out to take the bread. Yaniv pushed it towards him, and he hissed as the lean sparked a sharp pain in his side. He pressed his hand to his ribs. Rhahat looked up, eyes narrowing with sudden scrutiny. Yaniv shifted his weight, trying to suppress the pain. 

Rhahat returned to eating like he expected Yaniv to snatch the food back without warning. Yaniv followed suit. Kur food had a certain acrid taste to it, but hunger had eclipsed any sense of flavour. Rhahat was watching him when he finished, resting his head on his crooked knees. He was warming from the fire; Yaniv could feel his comfort at the back of his mind.

"Let me see your wrist," Rhahat said, reaching out with his hands. Yaniv did as he was told, feeling again the softness of Rhahat's skin, although it was roughened by the cold air and the journey. His hair was damp at the nape of his neck, the delicate, wet curls exposed when he bent his head to turn Yaniv's wrist into the light of the fire. He hissed in sympathy, seeing the deep gouge where the cuff had borne his weight, the dark bruise and swelling. He covered it with both hands, the cuff slipping between his fingers, and closed his eyes. 

It took a very long time before Yaniv felt any heat under his skin, apart from the slight warmth from Rhahat's hand, his brow furrowed as the swelling reduced, the pain ebbing, then increasing. Rhahat was sweating by the time he was done, pushing his hair back from his face. His lower lip was red from scraping his own teeth over it in concentration. Yaniv's wrist felt raw. 

Rhahat withdrew, rocking back on his heels. He looked down, studying his work. The fire popped behind him. The wind began to howl outside, the edge of Yaniv’s coat revealing a whirl of snow, some of it filtering inside, a little pile building up on the sill. 

Yaniv shifted, each breath building the pain in his side. Rhahat's eyes were half-lidded, but whether with tiredness or something else Yaniv couldn't tell. His lashes were long, veiling his eyes. Yaniv could barely feel anything from him: a slight sensation of warmth, hunger mostly sated. There was something else — a frisson trembling across his skin. Yaniv couldn't identify it; didn't think he had felt it before. 

"My — " 

"Yes," Rhahat said, rolling his shoulders. He cocked his head, narrowed his eyes and held the look until Yaniv became uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Rhahat stood, briefly balancing himself with a touch to Yaniv's shoulders, then beckoned him up until he was on his knees. Rhahat removed Yaniv's shirt with a quick movement and whistled, low. The dark, mottled bruise started at the top of his ribs and curved downwards towards his hip, too deep to be colourful, dark grey and black. Rhahat hissed in sympathy, his hands spanning it as he crouched down. 

"I can stand," Yaniv said. Rhahat shook his head.

"Too tall," he said. "I can't catch you if you fall."

"I won't fall."

"Looks bad." Rhahat's hands were trailing over the edge of the bruise, skimming over Yaniv's ribs and causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. He was too cold on one side and too warm on the other, half snow and half fire, melting himself. 

Rhahat's head was still cocked. He had never spent so long examining a wound before. Yaniv hoped it wasn't so serious that it couldn't be healed. Rhahat moved closer, until the edge of his shirt brushed against Yaniv's chest with every movement. 

He was about to ask how long it would take when Rhahat leaned forward and fit his hands over the bruise, his grip tight enough that his fingers skidded on Yaniv's flesh before catching tight. He drew a deep breath from their shared air. Yaniv felt the healing begin, slow and sharp-edged, like a surgeon drawing blade through flesh. It was a gentle, flickering warmth, still not like the surge of heat he had come to expect, Rhahat panting quietly as he worked, leaning forward until his weight swayed Yaniv back, pushing hard with the heels of his hand into the bruise like he was kneading bread. He was sweating, drops rolling down his face, hands unsteady on Yaniv's side. 

His face was pale — too pale, and as Yaniv watched, his eyes rolled back, half-lidded, but he caught himself before he fell, hands gripping at Yaniv's side. It was the healing that had caused the fever, and Rhahat was sending himself right back into it. _Stop_ was on the tip of Yaniv’s tongue when the heat finally flared, swelling like a river driven by snowmelt, scalding water flowing over his skin, and then sinking deeper. The pain washed over him, sharp enough that he gasped, feeling the bone grinding. Bile rose in his throat as it groaned back into place. He could feel it — he could feel each tiny movement like it was breaking a hundred times, the pain so deep it felt like his whole body was shifting along with it.

He couldn't think; couldn't maintain concentration — couldn't maintain a _thought_. His whole mind was consumed by agony, narrowing down only to the shift of bone and the warmth and pressure of Rhahat's hands. The pain faded, Rhahat moving away. Yaniv rocked forward, trying to follow that warmth. Rhahat was leaning back, sweat beaded on his forehead, eyes wide.

"I felt that," he said. He looked down at his hands and then back up at Yaniv. "I _felt_ it."

"I — "

"No," Rhahat said. "Don't talk. You don't understand." He stood, looking down at Yaniv. He stood there for a moment, eyes flicking between Yaniv's side, Yaniv's face. Rhahat raised his hand — Yaniv thought to look at it in the light — and then brought it down. 

A sharp slap across Yaniv's face that stung. He gasped, a shocked sound in the quiet room, lifting his hands to protect his face, rocking back on his heels. One hand dropped to draw a sword that wasn't there, leaving room for Rhahat to reach out and touch his cheek. Yaniv jerked his chin up so Rhahat's fingers slid right down to the edge of his jaw, and then the sting of the slap lifted from him, the impact dispersing. Rhahat’s past words were echoing in Yaniv's mind: _you do something to me, I do something to you_. 

Rhahat's eyes were calculating and hard, a look that had never been directed towards Yaniv. He was quiet for a moment. Yaniv's eyes lingered on the details, the new steadiness of his hands, the way he twisted the metal cuff around his wrist when he was thinking, an absent, practiced motion. His lips were pressed thin, head tilted to the side. 

He raised his hand again and Yaniv closed his eyes. The blow struck. It was faster, harder, the impact of his knuckles across Yaniv's mouth a hard line, leaving it tender and bruised. Rhahat's hand returned, soft, his thumb catching on the edge of his bottom lip, the sting flaring and receding like a washing wave.

"It's nothing — I can't — " 

Rhahat lifted his hands higher, soft fingertips alighting on Yaniv's scars. Yaniv's breath came fast and deep through his nose, able to stand only a moment of the threat of healing on his cheeks before he drew his head back from Rhahat's touch. Rhahat frowned and dipped his head, reaching up with his hands again. It was more threatening than any blow, the thought of allowing those soft hands to alight on his cheeks, and when Rhahat reached forward again, Yaniv reflexively knocked his hands away.

"Am I so threatening?" Rhahat murmured, hands still hovering in the air. "More fearsome than any Kur soldier — any Miran?"

Yaniv let the question linger in the air, which wasn't acceptable. Rhahat narrowed his eyes and reached out to grip Yaniv's chin, draw their faces closer together. "I am," he said, and laughed just a little, enough to raise Yaniv's hackles, his breath tempered, body tensing in anticipation of an attack. It didn't come. 

Rhahat met his eyes, then looked down at Yaniv's scars, and released his chin. He was too close and moving closer. The scrutiny of his cool eyes was unbearable, even when his hands were far away from Yaniv's face. Rhahat leaned forward. His cheek brushed against Yaniv's, who started, pulling back again. This — that had nothing to do with whatever Rhahat was testing. That was something else. It wasn't — it wasn't as if he had never been looked at before. He closed his eyes.

Rhahat moved closer once again; Yaniv could tell by the sound of his clothes. Hot, wet heat touched the side of his face, prompting a full body shudder. That was — did Rhahat know what he was _doing_? The pointed tip of his tongue traced the characters of Yaniv's name where they were etched into his skin. Yaniv's breath hitched, stuttered. His chest was empty of air, Rhahat's hand resting lightly on his throat, thumb pressed against the pulse that beat there. 

"This isn't helpful," Rhahat said, his lips moving softly against Yaniv's cheek. "You've distracted me." He retreated.

Yaniv opened his eyes. Rhahat was frowning, thinking. There was something in waiting — about kneeling and letting Rhahat think, waiting for him to make a decision. Yaniv's mind was veiled, curiously blank, thoughts still and soft, rising to the top of his mind in turn. It was a struggle to think past it. It felt alien to him to not have his mind occupied by a thousand decisions, his senses muted and narrowed down to watching Rhahat. His mind felt light, as if he had been carrying something heavy and it had been lifted. He couldn't reconcile that with the current situation; the weight of Rhahat's gaze and consideration should be weighing him down more than anything else. But even that confusion was slow to rise to the top of his mind.

Rhahat bent forward and pressed his thumb against Yaniv's ribs where the break had been. He slid his thumb along but found nothing, just whole, hale flesh. Yaniv was struck at the disparity between their bodies, Rhahat's small hand tracing across Yaniv's muscles. It was impossible that Rhahat could have power over him, not when Yaniv's thigh was the width of his torso. No, that was an exaggeration, but the comparison was almost apt. Yaniv was a brute in comparison to Rhahat's delicate wrists and hands. He felt heavy with muscle and strength, but somehow it was _Rhahat _who held the power. He bent his head and formed a fist; he looked up and met Yaniv's eyes. Not seeking permission, but something removed from that. There was no way to stop him, and he only wanted acknowledgement of what was about to happen. 

Yaniv couldn't move, couldn't speak — each urge welled up slow and weak, unable to be pushed through into motion. _Don't talk_. That's what Rhahat had said. He just had to meet his eyes, _will_ his acknowledgement towards Rhahat.

It worked. He could see it in Rhahat's eyes. Rhahat's fist was level with Yaniv's side, and he saw the moment his muscles shifted, elbow locked and his fist shot out, a hard punch thumping into Yaniv’s ribs. Rhahat's hand was small but it struck him like striking a bell, the ring cascading, harmonising with the memory of shifting bone until it resonated through his whole body. His mind disappeared, lost in the haze, pressing his teeth deep into his tongue and tasting blood. 

His breaths were coming harsh and fast. Rhahat's hand was splayed over his ribs. It wasn't enough. He had been hit ten times harder by men bigger than Rhahat, who had the intent to maim — to kill. Yet there was something in the way that Rhahat did it. All his attention was focused so completely on Yaniv that it made everything feel different. It wasn't like the training yard or the battlefield. The hits weren't hard, but they were _for _him, each one considered. The only wish that he could manifest was for more. 

Rhahat's head was still bent, eyes fixed down. No warmth of healing burned in his hands. The cold chain swung against Yaniv's body, making him jump every time. Yaniv could feel Rhahat's breath stirring the air between them, moving against his skin. He could hear — no, _feel _Rhahat's heart beating, twin of his own. Yaniv's shadow was covering Rhahat's face.

Rhahat hit him again. The only warning was the sharp intake of his breath, the movement of air between them. Then came the dull, fleshy thud of his fist, overshadowed by Yaniv's vocalisation, a yelp that he closed his mouth over, cut off. Rhahat glanced up, but it was enough for Yaniv to see his intent, sharp as his teeth. He hit Yaniv again, fist unerringly marking the same spot. 

It wasn't enough. Yaniv was beginning to float down, to reinhabit his body, his instincts awakening and telling him to protect himself. Yaniv choked it down. Rhahat knew it wasn't enough, and that was why he had glanced up, why he was hesitating. He was thinking again, twisting at the cuff on his wrist. It made the chain move where it was draped across Yaniv's thigh, just a slight shift back and forth across his skin. Yaniv lifted his hand. 

"No," Rhahat said. His voice was harsh with purpose; he was quick to seize upon Yaniv's wrist and push it back until both his wrists were behind him. Rhahat looped the chain around them. The cold metal bit into his wrists, collided with the cuff already there, raw on his skin. It pulled Rhahat closer, the edge of his hair brushing against Yaniv's neck, his breath on Yaniv's skin. The memory of his teeth was enough to make Yaniv shiver, enough to make his cock twitch. He had been trying to ignore it, but the urgency of desire was growing, alongside the risk that Rhahat would notice. Rhahat's gaze was fixed on Yaniv's body — there was no way he wouldn't notice. 

Every time Rhahat moved his hands, Yaniv's hands would move too, gently, a reminder that he was bound. His side was a dull ache. Rhahat's hands were on him again, burning with heat. Yaniv's breath hitched. He gritted his teeth, but the heat was inevitable. It wasn't painful, just a rolling sensation across his side, drawing the bruise out of his skin. It felt like stealing. Rhahat had made all the effort to mark him and then he just took it back. Yaniv wasn't sure if he was taking it because Yaniv wasn't worthy of it, or because Rhahat wanted him to feel the pain again, in reverse, body shuddering with an impact only he could feel. He was floating, listening to the beat of blood in his ears. But Rhahat didn't let him drift, reaching up to seize his chin and yank at it until their eyes met.

"I feel this," he said, other hand squeezing Yaniv's side, fingers digging into the spaces between Yaniv's ribs. "I feel it."

Yaniv's barriers were crumbling despite his fight to keep them up. His breath was shaky, unable to form an answer. They weren't questions; Rhahat didn't want him to answer. 

He thought back to the cave, the darkness and the sharpness of Rhahat's teeth, the smell of his own blood. He couldn't help but feel a phantom impression of Rhahat's teeth on the back of his shoulder, the hard pressure of his jaw setting bruises and indents into Yaniv’s skin. Absence had followed, without the real feeling of a bruise or a bite to carry with him, like it had never happened. He needed that; needed the reminder. 

He moved, an aborted jerk that tightened the chain around his wrists, dragging Rhahat closer until they were pinned together. Rhahat was trembling — no, quaking with restrained energy. Yaniv couldn't feel why. All he could feel from Rhahat was warmth. He was so close. Yaniv could see the reflection of the fire in his eyes. Rhahat leaned forward until Yaniv could feel the stir of his breath against his mouth. Yaniv closed his eyes. Seconds stretched on, counted by the beat of his heart. 

Rhahat's mouth — no, Rhahat's teeth caught his bottom lip, first a touch, then a soft scrape, closing over Yaniv’s bottom lip, holding him there. Yaniv held still like a rabbit trying not to trigger a trap, two thoughts sliding through his empty mind. _If I hold still he won't — what if he doesn't — _

Rhahat bit him, teeth sinking deep into Yaniv's lip, blood flooding into his mouth, pain shattering his drawn-up shields, his mind. He moaned, shamefully loud to his own ears, Rhahat's tongue laving over the wound, soft over sharp cuts. Yaniv was shattering from the inside out, a terrible wave he could not stop. He was dissolving into sensation. Barriers gone. His mind was sliding and spilling over. 

He could _feel_ Rhahat like they were one and the same. How had he ever thought — how had he _ever _thought that the thin flashes of emotion had been any measure of Rhahat as a person, as a _man_, when they were nothing more than the barest insight. He was drowning in Rhahat; he could feel each touch — each point of contact between them twice, once from each side, taste his own blood in Rhahat's mouth, feel Rhahat's heart pounding in his chest. 

It got stronger — he could see himself through Rhahat's eyes, gazing into his own closed eyes. His dark hair gleamed in the firelight, the red flush of his cheeks deep enough to detect even in the dim light, the jut of his nose casting a harsh shadow over his features. The way Rhahat saw his body made him blush further, lingering on his muscled chest, the way the veins stood out across his biceps, the thickness of his wrists. He saw himself swallow, saw the way his jaw was clenched, muscle fluttering on the side of his face, the starkness of his scars standing out. They drew Rhahat's eye like nothing else, but Yaniv couldn't tell if the strange, unsteady feeling at their sight was curiosity or disgust. It was dizzying, disorienting. 

The view faded and he was sinking back into his body, falling forward against Rhahat, who shored him up. The energy — the bond was flowing between them, both ways, the chain burning against his wrist. It was energising him, like he'd had a week of sleep and food, his whole body waking up as it thrummed through his muscles. It was happening to Rhahat too; when Yaniv looked up, Rhahat was refreshed, the dark circles under his eyes fading, a new shine to his hair, glow to his skin. There was strength in his arms where he was holding Yaniv up, a deep gleam of anger in his eyes, mirrored in the bond.

"You were doing it," Rhahat said. Emotions were flooding down over him, too many, too strong to identify. "_You_! I thought maybe it didn't work with Jehan — _you_ were blocking me." He unwound the chain around Yaniv's wrists and gripped Yaniv's face between his hot hands, pushing him backwards until he was prone. Rhahat loomed over him, serious-eyed. The chain was hot, gleaming gold, like it had been in a blacksmith's forge, cherry-red with power. Rhahat straddled him, leaning down until there was barely a centimetre between their faces. "You let me pour my energy into you without giving anything in return. I thought I was sick, _dying_."

Yaniv tried to speak, but Rhahat covered his mouth with a hard hand.Yaniv's throat worked. The sound was contained. 

"You lied to me," Rhahat said. "Is this all some Jehan trick? Were you sent by my m — my commander?" Yaniv made a noise, but all it did was press his lips against Rhahat's palm, blood growing tacky against his skin. "I can feel you now," Rhahat said. "I can feel what you feel — what you want."

What he was feeling — confusion, pain, contrition. Below that, woven through it all, was the warm blood of arousal, twisted through everything. Rhahat was looking directly into his eyes, pinning him, the bare skin of Yaniv's flesh sensitive against Rhahat's travel-worn clothes. 

Rhahat touched Yaniv's neck, thumb tracing the vein. Yaniv couldn't understand the feelings that were rolling over him, but he thought he understood something from the soft touch of Rhahat's hand in counterpoint to the harshness of his words, the hard, pinning gaze, the weight of him pressing down on Yaniv's torso, the hand over his mouth. It was about what Rhahat wanted. Not resistance, not reluctance, not a fight. Yaniv was there to be shaped and Rhahat was the shaper, reminding Yaniv of carving wood, goading the true shape from a misshapen block. 

He relaxed. It happened all at once, his whole body going lax, muscles loose, arms slack at the sides of his body. Now that he wasn't holding himself so tightly, each part of his body was reawakening, not numbed with tension. His lip throbbed, a hot, deep ache that made his cock swell. 

"Good," Rhahat said, which made it swell further. His voice was low, but he was close enough that Yaniv didn't need to strain to hear each word melting slow into his mind. "Good," he said again, hand sliding down from Yaniv's mouth to his neck, his thumb trailing behind, a hot spark of power lingering and sealing the bite in his lip. Yanivpushed upward into the sensation, seeking more.

Rhahat squeezed his neck, the pressure gentle at first, barely restricting his breath, but then more, and more, Yaniv's gasps coming fast and thin, chest fluttering. Soon there was no room in his throat for air at all, his chest feeling stark and empty, burning. His thoughts were soft, half-formed, floating by individually, unfinished. All he could see was Rhahat's intent face, the flare of his muscles in the tightness of his grip. 

He leaned down and kissed Yaniv. His lips were full and warm, soft against Yaniv's slack mouth. Rhahat's tongue was hot and wet across the seam of his lips; he wanted it to shove inside, but it was difficult to remember how to allow it. Rhahat pushed his tongue forward, curling into Yaniv's mouth and colliding with his. Yaniv wanted to respond. The pressure was delicious, the way his tongue forced possession of Yaniv's mouth. Yaniv's vision darkened, but the sensation remained. 

Rhahat released his neck. Yaniv whooped in air, sucking it deep down into his lungs. Rhahat kissed him again, his tongue curling around his, the hard threat of his teeth behind. Rhahat withdrew, hands stroking down his sides, then rubbing over Yaniv's nipples, flicking them with his nails, twisting them. Yaniv moaned, canting his hips. Rhahat was merciless, pinching until they were two hot points burning on his chest.

Rhahat stood. Yaniv felt cold without the warmth of him pressing into Yaniv's skin. He had stood to remove his shirt, revealing his chest, his skin light brown and smooth, skin accustomed to sun and leisure, the bright sun of Mira where the air always smelled like fruit and flowers and there was no need to worry about the world, about Jehan, anything beyond the borders.

"Don't do that," Rhahat said. "Don't see that. See _me_."

The command was soft but powerful. Instead of a Miran there, he saw Rhahat, Rhahat's body, his lithe limbs, the bruises down his torso, across his arms, ranging from old and multicoloured to new and dark, accompanied by healed scratches and scrapes, abrasions. A tapestry of their journey as clear as the scars on Yaniv's face. The way that he carried himself wasn't Miran arrogance, but Rhahat's own pride, confidence in his own skin. There was no superiority in his gaze as he looked down at Yaniv, just that same considering gaze. He was thinking not of Jehan, but of Yaniv himself — what Rhahat could do to him. 

His body was beautiful. It wasn't muscled like Yaniv's, but like that of a swift runner, light on his feet. He was slight, but not as skinny as Yaniv had thought before, his shoulders broad but his waist thin, his legs long. He removed his trousers, revealing his thighs, smallclothes and the swell of his cock behind them. Yaniv's mouth was wet with the imagining of pressing his face there, of fitting his mouth over the head of Rhahat's cock, an urging hand on the back of his neck.

"Stop it," Rhahat hissed, adjusting himself. "Don't you want me to last?"

Yaniv tried not to think, suppressing each and every thought of what he wanted Rhahat to do, what _he _wanted to do, trying to return to unshaped wood. Rhahat was looking down on him, that same, considering look, twisting at the cuff on his wrist. Yaniv felt raw and carved open by Rhahat's gaze. Rhahat could sense what he wanted, but it was more than that. It didn't matter what Yaniv wanted. It was what Rhahat wanted to do to him that mattered.

Rhahat shifted his weight and then kicked Yaniv in the side, hard as he could. The pain was sharp, exploding against his ribs. He groaned, rocking to the side. Rhahat was still watching him. He kicked him again with unerring precision, foot driving hard into the same spot, pain pushing into Yaniv like a thrust knife. He was floating, the pain holding him up like a warm lake, transcending his body, its needs. He was a vessel that Rhahat was pouring into. He wanted to be enveloped by that feeling, to drown in it. 

Time had passed — just a minute or two, but Rhahat was crouching next to him, hand rolling over the bruise. No healing heat came from the touch, just a deep pinch of bruised flesh. Rhahat stood again and bent to strip Yaniv of his trousers, his hard cock standing up against his stomach. He was wet with precome, the tip shining in the firelight. His whole body was warm with arousal, thrumming in his veins. 

Rhahat put his foot on Yaniv's cock and pressed, squeezing it between the soft sole of his foot and Yaniv's hard stomach. The touch was unbearable, an equal mix of pleasure and pain until he could no longer distinguish them. They became a single, overwhelming sensation. It was all pain and it all felt good. He could feel it — feel the sensation flowing from his body into Rhahat's, hoping with each passing moment that he would receive anything in return. Rhahat's weight was not as heavy as his intent, brows drawn together and darkly serious.

"I can feel you like that," Rhahat said. Yaniv flushed, but he couldn't turn away or deny it. "I think you'd like anything I do to you." 

The bond began to reverse. He couldn't see images, but he could sense the depths of Rhahat's creativity, all the ways he knew that mixed pain and pleasure, and it was like being kicked and beaten a hundred times; he could feel phantom bruises blooming on his skin. The pressure on his cock lessened and he gasped, unsure if it was with relief or protest. He wanted Rhahat's hands on his neck again. He wanted Rhahat's tongue in his mouth again. 

Rhahat moved his foot down to Yaniv's thigh and pressed the ball of his heel down on the muscle hard enough to make him groan, a point of dull pain becoming unbearable, like a cramp, a kink in the muscle that couldn't be straightened. He was caught between two impulses — the survival instinct to get away, and his desire to let Rhahat sink his weight onto him until he was so deeply bruised it wouldn't heal for weeks, an indelible mark. He pushed into it, tightened his thigh until Rhahat had to push down harder, lifting his other foot off the ground and grinding down, balancing with his whole weight. He lingered there for a moment, occasionally shivering to regain his balance, Yaniv's whole consciousness narrowed down to that dull pain, until Rhahat stepped back, landing on his feet with a thump. 

Rhahat didn't praise him, didn't say anything at all. Instead, his approval radiated through the bond, filling Yaniv; Yaniv’s cock kicked against his stomach, adding to the embarrassing wetness. Rhahat knelt between Yaniv's parted legs, running his fingers up his inner thighs, the blunt scratch of his nails raising goosebumps on his legs that ran up his whole body. Rhahat's fingers skirted his balls, just a gentle brush that made him shudder, moving past his cock as well, in favour of his hips, his stomach, marking his way with light pinches and scratches that woke every part of his body up. His skin began to anticipate the touch, singing with it until each second where Rhahat's hands were off him was unbearable. What was worse was Rhahat's gaze down on him, his eyes framed by long lashes with no hint of dreamy mercy in them, the grey more reminiscent of the steel of a sword than a cloud. 

"I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't thought about this," Rhahat said. "Although I've barely had the time. I'll have to go by instinct." He trailed his fingers over Yaniv's stomach, first only pinching, then pinching and twisting, his nails digging in, Yaniv’s skin burning. He lifted his hips both to lessen the pain but also to get friction on his cock, hoping it might brush against Rhahat's wrist. But Rhahat anticipated his movement and crooked his wrist away. 

There was a neat line of red marks across Yaniv’s stomach. Rhahat bent his head and ran his tongue along them, the wet pressure slick across Yaniv’s skin, forcing a shuddering moan from him. Rhahat’s tongue slid lower until it was pressed against the head of Yaniv's cock, wet on wet, sliding across the slit and then off again. It felt incredible, a second of hot pleasure that spiked up through his body. He looked down, saw Rhahat tasting the precome that was pooling there until it was gone. 

"I want to suck you," Rhahat said, and Yaniv felt a sudden wash of desperation. Rhahat dragged his lips over the head of Yaniv's cock, making him squeeze his eyes shut, his stomach going tight just from the pleasure of the glide of Rhahat's lips, suddenly realising how close he was to coming and trying to will it away. _Just do it_, he thought, and the desperation surged. 

"There's nothing more I want," Rhahat said, lips moving against Yaniv's skin, "than to spend hours with you down my throat. I think you'd like that. Especially if I stopped each time you were about to come." He swiped his tongue over the full length of Yaniv's cock, pressing hard like he was pinning him there just with the soft force, the swell of his lower lip dragging. Beyond that was the hard press of Rhahat's teeth - just the flat front of them, but it was enough of a reminder. 

Yaniv’s hips stuttered up and he was coming, all the pleasure and pain culminating into one sensation, coming so hard it slicked streaks across Rhahat's mouth, the image of it against Rhahat's lips etching into his mind, enough to set his blood racing again. 

Rhahat licked his lips. That sight too — the tip of his tongue slipping across his wet mouth — made Yaniv swallow hard, his cock valiantly trying to stand again. What he hadn't noticed — or felt, because he could feel it now that the pleasure was fading — was that Rhahat was angry — furious with him. 

"Did you think you had permission?" he said, curling his head around Yaniv's cock and thumbing at the head, the overstimulation painful and cruel. Yaniv tried to inch away, pull himself away from Rhahat's hand, but it was impossible to escape. "I ought to break your arm for that."

Yaniv moaned, low and desperate. It was a plaintive sound that made Rhahat pause with one final flick of his thumb. He released Yaniv's cock slowly, one finger at a time. "Should I save that?" he said. "Is that a reward?" 

He leaned down — for a second Yaniv thought Rhahat would take his cock into his mouth again — and bent over, licking at the jut of Yaniv's hip, the slight scratch of his unshaven cheek evoking a frisson of excitement. Yaniv was caught between the scratch and the soft, wet curl of Rhahat's tongue. His breath was hot against Yaniv's skin. 

Rhahat bit him, his sharp teeth pressing deep into Yaniv’s hip, razor-edged and inextricable, the blunted sensation of his lower teeth still painful. He couldn't escape from the pressure — he could allow himself to _feel _it through the bond this time, the hard clench of Rhahat's jaw, the exertion of effort, the tremble of his muscles. 

Rhahat released him with a sigh. There was blood in his teeth. Yaniv could feel it trickling down his hip, the crease of his thigh. 

Sensation was pouring down the link, an overwhelming sense of satisfaction, glowing warmth subsuming everything else. Rhahat's satisfaction was a honeyed, decadent thing that made the world soft and sweet around him. 

Rhahat bit him again. Yaniv gasped. He could feel each individual pinprick, the way the tight flesh of his hip was gathered into Rhahat's mouth, tongue flicking against it. Rhahat pushed his chin up, teeth scraping an abrasion into Yaniv's flesh. The warm sensation was resounding in his groin, coiling deep into his stomach. 

Rhahat shifted upwards, leaving his bites unhealed. The feeling of Rhahat's body colliding with his, hips bumping against the bite, sparked a hot thrill in his stomach. Then Rhahat’s cock aligned with Yaniv's, and although his was soft and sore, it sent a harsh jolt of pleasure up his spine — the wet drag of Rhahat's cock against the bruises on Yaniv’s stomach, his chest pressed against Yaniv's, arms encircling Yaniv's head, gently, until the chain was wrapped around his neck. The thrill felt like setting his teeth to ice.

"Tighten it all you like," Rhahat said, right into Yaniv's ear. "Loosen it, and suffer the consequences." 

He stroked Yaniv's neck, then reached out and took Yaniv's wrist, pushing it gently until the chain began to squeeze around his neck, tight on the bruise that Rhahat had left. It was preternaturally hot against his skin, pressing deep enough not to cut off his air, but enough to be a pressure across his throat, anchoring his hand, the chain quivering with tension. Rhahat ground his hips down onto Yaniv, sliding back and forth, each time rewarding Yaniv with a little exhalation of pleasure directed into his skin. 

Yaniv moved his wrist, enough to pull the chain tighter by a few links. Rhahat was watching. He smiled. His teeth were red with Yaniv's blood. "Good," he said. He bent his head and nosed along Yaniv's collarbone, sliding his tongue across the jut of bone before needling it with his teeth, not even breaking the skin. He looked up at Yaniv.

Energy was still cycling between them. He could feel weariness melting away from his flesh until he was burning with vitality, like he could run to Mira and back before sunrise. His cock was half-hard against Rhahat's; he couldn't tell if Rhahat had noticed. 

He pulled on the chain again. It constricted. His breath was thinning, the chain hard around his neck, but with none of the deep, satisfying pressure of Rhahat's hand with his whole weight behind it, muscles standing out in his arms.

"Good," Rhahat said again. His voice was unsteady with pleasure, his eyes half-shut, face flushed. "So you can take instruction."

Another wave of Rhahat's satisfaction washed over him as Rhahat bent and bit his collarbone, teeth clipping against the bone. Yaniv shuddered and winced, blood spilling up towards his neck and down across his chest. His head spun in counterpoint to the energy filling him, Rhahat's approval waning until he pulled the chain tighter, until he could barely breathe at all. 

The air was sparking around him, his body grounded only by Rhahat's weight. Rhahat released Yaniv's collarbone and worked a hand between their bodies, wrapping it around their cocks at once, the sudden jolt of sensation making Yaniv's hips kick up.

"I want to fuck you," Rhahat said, voice low, hand moving with excruciating slowness that made Yaniv push up into his grip. Rhahat paused, a hard warning squeeze reminding Yaniv that he could feel everything Yaniv was thinking, feeling. Everything he was doing to Yaniv, how each flick of his thumb and wet slide of his hand were bringing Yaniv up to the peak, but not enough to push him over it. Rhahat was careful to draw him there but not allow him any further, pausing. Wasn't it affecting him at all? Didn't he want to take his own pleasure from Yaniv's body? Unbidden tears were leaking from Yaniv’s eyes and down into his ears. They weren't of sadness but of desperation, misdirected energy from holding himself back.

Rhahat's eyes were closed. Yaniv reached out to Rhahat's mind until he could feel the terrifying burning flame of him, falling into his heat. He could feel the depths of Rhahat's arousal, held back only by his desire to watch Yaniv struggle with himself, able to curtail his own needs even though they were immense. 

Rhahat blinked down at him with surprise. "I can feel you," he said. "How — when did you learn to do that?" 

Yaniv met his eyes and pulled the chain to its limit, cutting off his air entirely. He gasped for breath that wasn't there, fighting the urge to release himself by allowing the force of Rhahat's emotions to lead. Rhahat gasped, squeezing Yaniv's cock against his own. Yaniv was wheezing for breath, his heart beating hard in his neck against the chain. Rhahat's eyes were closed, hand stuttering in its strokes. 

Yaniv could tell Rhahat was about to come, from the flush down over his chest, the way his body was tensing up and the noises he was making, but they all paled in comparison to the way he _felt_ Rhahat start to come, the rush of pleasure down the link until he couldn't tell it from his own, filling his whole body with heat and sensation. He had to fight against it with all his will to hold himself back, sinking his teeth deep into his lip. That only ignited the memory of Rhahat's bite, and he whimpered. 

Rhahat was coming, his head rolling against Yaniv's chest as he gasped, come landing on Yaniv's stomach as Rhahat's hand gripped at Yaniv's hip, pressing his thumb against the bites, pulling at the edge of the wound.

"Come on," Rhahat said, and his vicious satisfaction burned through Yaniv, his hips jolting Rhahat on top of him as he came, vision fading to darkness as he added to the mess on his stomach. 

Rhahat reached forward and pushed his hand, untangling the chain until it was loose, the gentle touch of his healing hand around Yaniv's neck holding future promise. Yaniv breathed, feeling the flow of energy from Rhahat begin to slow. 

Rhahat cleaned Yaniv's belly with his damp handkerchief, his muscles quivering with the cold shock of it. He didn't want Rhahat to so easily clean away every trace of what had happened, but he was. Both with his cloth and his hands moving across the bruises. Yaniv still had one, probably more, judging by the deep-seated ache in his thigh. 

He began to dress, carefully sitting up and retrieving his clothes, sliding them on expecting pain in his movements, but there was nothing. Rhahat was still naked, cock soft against his thigh. He was lying down on his cloak next to Yaniv, sending pleased and relaxed feelings through the bond. Yaniv couldn't look at him; he knew if he did, feelings would rise that he had no way to hide from Rhahat — the only way to conceal them was to not feel them at all.

Rhahat was naked, content and close to sleep, so close that it was making Yaniv sleepy too, the rush of energy demanding rest as it settled in his body. Rhahat's eyes fluttered shut. Yaniv drew Rhahat's cloak over his body, the brush of his hands rewarded with a sleepy murmur. 

Rhahat was warm, not with the burn of fever, just a warmth that felt a little unnatural, now that the fire had burned down to coals. Yaniv was warm too, only realising now that they should be shivering and huddling, counting each breath and praying for the warmth of the sun to return. The blame was clearly to be laid on the golden chain that was coiled between them, still hot to the touch. 

Sleep wasn't a friend to Yaniv as it was to Rhahat, even with the gentle waves rolling down the bond. He listened out for Rhahat's dreams; there were no sounds, just sensations of light and colour. He felt world-weary, still exhausted even though his body was full of energy, coursing through his blood. 

Reaching down, he pressed the heel of his hand into the bruise forming under his skin where Rhahat had stepped on him, his whole weight coalescing into that one point. Gratitude swelled in his chest that Rhahat had left him that one mark, even though he wasn't sure it was intentional. He dug his thumb into the bruise, the dull pain that came with it only sparking the barest pleasure, an echo of what Rhahat could elicit with one finger. 

Yaniv swallowed. His throat was tight with the memory of Rhahat's hand there, the beat of his heart now slow and relentless. Rhahat had looked down into him as if it was nothing to dip directly into his thoughts, picking through them as he pleased. 

The unrest was internal, coalescing in his mind. He wasn't used to that; he was used to being told what to do by his commanders, the general, the king. He was used to being bone-tired from pushing his body through mud so deep that when it dried it felt like his legs were bound in iron, the whole weight of the forest dragging him down. But that was comparatively easy, honest, no goal except to make camp and sleep at the end of the day.

He had survived in the army by keeping his thoughts quiet, regardless of the physical orders. He had marched down the mountain to the border on an order, despite the fact it was an order that came, indirectly, from Mira, because he had been able to _think_ about it. If the Mirans had been able to tell what thoughts passed his mind, he would have been run through on the first day. And Rhahat was a Miran too — how could Yaniv ever trust that Rhahat himself wouldn't tell his commanders what Yaniv really thought of them? 

Even if it had led to — even if he had — looking past his physical response, which made him flush to remember, the way that Rhahat had plucked thoughts from his mind unsettled him. He couldn't move on from that thought. If it was to be this way from now on, there would be no way to ever conceal something from Rhahat — no way to object, to argue, to disagree. There was no time to worry about what he thought. His thoughts would never be his own again.

Somehow, he had always believed that it would all end when they reached the Miran camp, as if setting foot there would spring the shackles open. But that had never been said — and Rhahat surely would have mentioned it, if only to quell Yaniv's temper. 

The sight of the ties on Rhahat's shirt, made especially for him, was a symbol of the life Rhahat had led, always considering the chain until it was just the way he thought, just a part of who he was — and now a part of Yaniv, too. 

A thousand days tumbled through his mind, the minutiae becoming a longer and longer list in his mind. Would everything he ever did would be next to Rhahat? Sleeping? Waking — even eating, bathing, pissing? Never further than that metre apart. There must be ten thousand things that he hadn't even thought of that he would have to do next to Rhahat.

And not just that. His mind would be an open book to Rhahat. Would he truly know every thought that Yaniv would have? He was only spared now by Rhahat's slumber. It made Yaniv's teeth ache. He couldn't live like that — he doubted anyone could. Rhahat was the exception. Yaniv had no idea how he did it. 

The wind was still picking up outside, resounding against the walls of the cabin and howling through the gaps like it might pick the whole thing up and leave them under nothing but the whirling sky.

Breathing as quietly as he could manage, he reached down until he hooked his finger on the corner of his belt, dragging it up until he could get at his belt knife, keeping his movements slow enough to not disturb Rhahat, sliding his knife out of its sheath with a patience he did not feel. He lay there for what felt like a long time, feeling the weight of the knife against his hand, the well-worn leather sheath, nicks and scratches from its time on his side. It was both a meaningless object and a sacred tool, reminding him of time spent in the forest, the scent of pine resin rising to his nose amid the frozen earth. He ran his thumb up and down the hilt, chilled metal a contrast to hot skin. 

The back of his teeth and the tips of his fingers remembered the thrill the last time he had touched blade to chain. Maybe if he just held on a little longer, the blade would slip through. He turned it, metal scraping on the chain. 

Each sound he made was another warning to Rhahat, who still slumbered, but he was growing too loud, struggling to stifle the grunts of effort, the hitches of breath, the sound of metal against metal. If he could just break free — if he could just be free — 

Yaniv thumbed at the cuff, feeling the thin weight of it. It barely felt like anything and it looked absurd. A child's trinket on a soldier's wrist. He couldn't even look at it. This was a delicate thing made for someone like Rhahat, not him. Made for a Miran. How could he do anything with this attached to him? How could he live any part of his life? No building of cabins, no swimming under the waterfall, no hunting, no pilgrimages to the higher peaks.

He slid the knife under the cuff, feeling the hard edge of it against the vein in his wrist. Turning it even a twitch dug the edge into his skin, the other side pressing up into the cuff but not bending it, merely lifting it up. The same sensation zinged up his arm. His veins were quivering. The hair stood up on the back of his neck, a ringing building in his ears like a sudden bell chiming right next to his head. He laid the knife flat again and it faded. 

There was a slim red line down his wrist, just from the pressure of the knife. He pressed the tip of his tongue between his teeth and turned the knife again. The thrill started, metal and ice rising against the back of his teeth. He ignored it, twisting it further until it dug into his wrist, parting the skin. Blood welled to the surface. Looking down made him feel queasy but distant. The blood wet the edge of the knife, rivulets running over the edge of his wrist. It wasn’t his at all — he felt no pain, no sensation to go along with the blood, the scent of it. It couldn't be more than a scratch. The cuff was still only lifting from his skin. 

How far had Rhahat managed to get? He remembered — he could still see it now, Rhahat's arm lax and half reached out between them, fingers gently curled. The cuff had slipped up, but the light had been so low he had to rely on memory, the band of scar tissue under the cuff, old and faded. 

Rhahat said he had tried everything quiet. 

Yaniv turned the knife a bit further, pulling the edge of the knife up into the cuff, the sensation in his bones increasing from a whine into a wail, his hand shaking and forcing him to grit his teeth and bite his tongue until he tasted blood, this time without the scratch of Rhahat's teeth and the slide of his tongue. Yaniv winced and tried to put the thought out of his mind. 

Rhahat made a sound in his sleep. His brow was furrowed, eyes squeezed tight. Yaniv turned away, pulling hard on the knife. He tightened his grip on it, trying to stop his hand from shaking. The knife slid on the metal, blood running down into his palm. 

The air of the room was squeezing down, collapsing on him. A weight was falling across him; his body was growing heavier. It was becoming more and more difficult to hold his hand out in front of him, his vision wavering. Sweat was beading on his forehead, rolling down his neck. 

One final movement — there was no way the cuff wouldn't bend — wouldn't _snap_. He redoubled his slick grip on the knife, pulling with all his strength while jerking his other hand down, straining, his muscles burning, the back of the cuff cutting into his wrist, pushing deep into the skin. Blood was flowing down his wrist and elbow, dripping onto his thigh.

"What are you doing?" Rhahat's voice was fuzzy with sleep. Then Yaniv felt him come awake all at once, lunging up and pulling the knife out of Yaniv's nerveless hand. 

Rhahat grabbed his arm, pulling the wound closed, a starburst of heat and light sealing it so quickly it felt like a cauterisation, absent only the scent of burnt flesh. Rhahat's hands were gripping his arm so tight that there were bruises left behind, one finger at a time. 

"Stupid fool," Rhahat said, voice shaking. Yaniv could feel his bare, fluttering terror like bile in his throat. Yaniv began to close the link, squeezing it down to nothingness. 

"Don't," Rhahat said. "Please."

"I can't — live like this," Yaniv said. He couldn't turn and look at Rhahat, but he felt the bitterness spike from him like another slice of the knife.

"It's been _an hour_," Rhahat said. "You can't even — don't make me feel like I'm bound to a corpse." He reached out as though to feel if Yaniv was still alive. His hands were dark with blood. Yaniv leaned away.

"I can't live with someone knowing my every thought."

Rhahat scoffed. "You think I'd be alive if the person I was chained to could hear my _every thought_?" 

"I don't — "

"You've never asked about who — inhabited that before you," Rhahat said, pointing at Yaniv's bloody wrist. "Never thought about it? Maybe you should." His tone was bitter. He retreated into himself, shoulders hunching.

"Tell me," Yaniv said. Rhahat was washing his hands with the last of the water they had left. 

"I'm sure it's not what you've been envisaging," Rhahat said, eyes drifting away from Yaniv. "There were less — conversations."

It was no use if Rhahat was just going to be obtuse.Yaniv continued to compress the link, like pinching off a bleeding vein.

Rhahat hissed. "_Don't_."

"I can't — "

"I mean not like _that_," he said, wiping at Yaniv's arm with the cloth. "You didn't let me make my point."

Yaniv raised a brow, trying not to look down at Rhahat wiping Yaniv's blood from unbroken flesh. 

"You can't lie to someone that can feel all your thoughts," Rhahat said. "And I've been known to lie." He closed his eyes and Yaniv felt the change, the raw bond becoming soft, flimsy. Rhahat was a shadow on the other side of a curtain, still _close_, but hidden. Yaniv exhaled. Rhahat drew another layer between them until it was like hearing someone from three rooms over, enough to know someone was speaking, but not to understand what they were saying. 

Yaniv sighed and closed his own eyes, thinking about how Rhahat had done it, drawing a curtain between them. No — that wasn't quite right. His thoughts drifted; he remembered the screen his mother had dressed behind in the corner of his parents' room, delicate paper and dark wood, some of it thin enough for light to pass through. 

"Yes," Rhahat said. "Now you feel like a person, not a corpse." 

Yaniv swallowed. Rhahat dressed, quickly, then resettled and moved Yaniv's head to rest against his thigh, fingers idly splayed on Yaniv's crown. 

But Yaniv couldn't relax, couldn't keep his clean, unblemished forearm out of his sight. Seeing no wound or scar set his mind adrift, unanchored into the night, like nothing at all had happened. For all that Rhahat could see in his mind, he didn't seem to understand Yaniv's need for proof. 

Rhahat gently touched Yaniv’s leftmost scar with his thumb, as if he could still tell where Yaniv's thoughts dwelled, if not their nature. Yaniv twitched, unable to suppress the reaction. It didn't seem to bother Rhahat — at least not that he could tell. Perhaps now he could sense why Yaniv jumped every time Rhahat's fingers strayed too close — the fear of reaching up and feeling his cheek drawn smooth.

"I'm surprised you're not growing a beard yet," Rhahat said. Yaniv couldn't help but remember the scratch of Rhahat's cheek against his hip. He flushed. 

"It's what is done," Yaniv said, stumbling a little with his sleep-thick tongue. "There's a herb to prepare the skin." The memory of the thick scent of it startled him. He could smell it now, feel the texture of it drying on his skin, hear the blade on the strop behind him. 

"To stop the beard?" Rhahat said, his thumb idle on Yaniv's cheek. "Why?"

"If you can't see someone's scars, it's — deceptive."

"Oh?" Rhahat said, turning his face to the side. "What do I look like to you, then?"

"Strange," Yaniv said, and Rhahat smiled, a little unpleasantly. "Not — I mean, you could be anyone. You could be the lost prince of Jehan, for all I know."

Rhahat's hands stilled on Yaniv's cheek. "I don't think we need to worry about that," he said. "Go to sleep." 

Yaniv sighed, and that drained his body of energy and tension as he tried to relax, losing his thoughts in the gale of the wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All injuries to Yaniv are healed. Implied noncon is largely in the second chapter; it is not between the main characters.
> 
> Yaniv and Rhahat journey to a cave where Rhahat asks permission to test his healing. He cuts Yaniv and heals him, and then bites him twice and heals him. Yaniv finds the experience confusingly enjoyable.
> 
> Yaniv kills a soldier to save their lives. 
> 
> They end up in a cabin where Rhahat realises that Yaniv has been mentally blocking him. He figures it out through impact play; it escalates to consensual sex. 
> 
> After the sex scene, Yaniv is overwhelmed and attempts to free himself from the bond with a knife, a byproduct of which is injury to his wrist. As soon as Rhahat realises, it is healed.


	2. Part 2

*

Yaniv awoke to grey half-light, feeling unexpectedly rested. Rhahat was near, digging through the Kur pack with an enthusiasm that bordered on ferocity, sorting it into two piles. He threw a pair of Kur uniform trousers towards Yaniv without looking; he must have felt him awaken. 

Yaniv frowned down at the pants. They were wool, warm and well-made, but just the touch of them made him frown. He changed; he didn't like looking down and seeing Kur colours, but he couldn't deny that he was glad of their sturdy warmth. 

Putting on his coat made him a chimera — Jehan face, Mira coat, Kur trousers. All three wouldn't hesitate to loose an arrow at that sight. Yaniv himself wouldn't, if he was alone and free. 

It was difficult to turn and look at Rhahat. Yaniv ate what was left of their supplies for a meager breakfast and peered out beyond the window. It was eerie and still, all sound muted by the snow. The trees were sheened with ice that adorned every branch and needle with a bright shine. His breath was white on each exhale, even the shallowest ones, although he felt no chill. 

Finally, he had to turn and lay eyes on Rhahat, who looked the opposite of what Yaniv had come to expect, no lank hair or shadowed eyes. He was flush with health, from his dark hair down to his serious eyes, alight with a new spark, skin soft and glowing. He clicked his tongue without looking up.

"Don't flatter me," he said, tightening the straps on the satchel and handing it to Yaniv. Yaniv tried to conceal his surprise, unsure if it filtered down to Rhahat or not. The idea that Rhahat could feel him looking put him on edge, but he knew that Rhahat was perceptive enough that he could usually tell when Yaniv was looking at him anyway. 

He wasn't healed as Yaniv was, moving with stiffness, although it was still a great measure removed from the previous day. Yaniv inhaled slowly, wondering how it had felt for Rhahat to be linked to a closed mind and feeling his energy draining away. But he looked fine now, his posture straight, head bent to his task. Yaniv didn't think he was flattering him. 

The door took fair force to open, Yaniv exerting his whole strength against the cracking ice. The snow outside was piled high enough that they had to step up and onto it, frozen hard enough that it could be walked upon with only slight give. He could feel the depth of gratitude Rhahat had towards his new boots, and had to turn to hide his smile. 

"What's funny," Rhahat said, without looking at Yaniv, eyes focused out into the sunrise.

"Nothing," Yaniv said. He turned and took one last look at the remains of the house, seeing it not as a shelter but the danger of it, the crumbling wood barely standing, roof heavy with snow. 

"Come on," Rhahat said, returning to urging Yaniv on with a gentle rattle of the chain. Yaniv's boots crunched on the slick snow surface, Rhahat skidding a little before he found his pace. His breath was laboured as they continued on, unused to the effort the snow added to his pace. His breaths puffed out in clouds that dissipated high in the air, floating up towards the pines. Yaniv paused to let him catch up, looking up and out towards the top of the mountain — no, to where the peak faded into the clouds.

"Is it always like this?" Rhahat said. 

"No," Yaniv said. "This is winter." 

Rhahat sighed and curled his hands into his cloak, shivering just a touch. "Thank you for that verbal painting." He continued on. Every now and then he would reach up to push back his hair from his forehead, running a hand through it that stuttered when he found it short.

"Is this the first time you've been in Jehan?" Yaniv asked.

"I don't know," Rhahat said, absently. 

"You mean like — you might have come here as a child?"

"No," Rhahat said, and he made a little hand gesture that Yaniv didn't understand. 

The chain between them was radiant in the sunlight, glancing rainbows into Yaniv's eyes whenever he looked down. The air was thin and hard to breathe as they climbed further up the mountain. Yaniv's sweat was cooling inside his clothes as they tramped, the scenery slowly changing as they traversed straight across the mountain, the mist falling down behind them whenever he turned back. 

The silence was complete, but Yaniv could feel what Rhahat was feeling — not the usual mute fatigue, but a renewed vigour. His back was straight and head raised, taking in every sight and sound of Jehan, even though Yaniv thought it wasn't very impressive without the wildflowers to dot the ground and the birdsong echoing through the trees. He tried pushing that sense to Rhahat, who smiled but didn't speak.

Yaniv led again, thinking of the biggest peak of Jehan, which was far behind the clouds. On a clear day, they would be dwarfed by it, the tiny peak they were on now looking like a gentle hill. They had to go west, along the side of the mountain, rather than up, but he hoped that Rhahat would get to see at least part of it. 

The path was becoming narrow again, the river making a reappearance below, snaking out from under the mountain, frozen solid. A natural bridge spanned the gap over the carved-out rock, the river dizzyingly far beneath them. Rhahat paused to kneel as close to the edge as he dared, eyeing the way down. A small shower of rocks was dislodged by his movement and he flinched back, grappling at the chain.

"No," he said. Yaniv didn't answer, looking up towards the clouds. 

"You can go down if you like," Yaniv said, mildly, "but I'm going across."

Rhahat hissed. "I liked it when I couldn't feel your resolve."

"Use it," Yaniv said, standing and straightening his back, shuffling onto the natural bridge. It felt solid under him despite the fact it was only about two metres wide. Rhahat grumbled under his breath and started forward after him, his seeking hand grasping at Yaniv's. Yaniv took it even though practicality told him it would unbalance him; it didn't matter so much when they were already chained together. Rhahat’s fingers were warm and clammy with sweat. Yaniv forced himself to slow his steps, Rhahat swaying precariously.

"I hate heights," Rhahat said.

"Stop looking," Yaniv said, trying to push the resolve down the link until he felt Rhahat's breathing slow as they made their way across the bridge. Rhahat's grip was still so tight on his hand that it was going numb. "Stop," he said again.

"I'm not looking," Rhahat said, from behind what sounded like clenched teeth. 

"No, I mean — wait," Yaniv said, and slowed his breathing, ears pricking up into the wind. Rhahat was confused, but followed suit. Yaniv turned his head back and forth and held his breath, the muted sound of snow settling around them, the distant shifting of ice below. Then again — somewhere, far in the distance behind them, the howl of a dog. 

Rhahat shivered, and Yaniv felt him fight the urge to physically crowd against Yaniv. He started moving again without speaking and Rhahat followed, redoubling their pace until they were over on the other side of the river.

"Dogs can't track in the snow," Rhahat said, with shaky confidence. "Right? Isn't that right?"

"I don't think so," Yaniv said. His heart was thumping with an urgency that was welling in his mind. "But it doesn't matter once they find our tracks."

"Do something," Rhahat said, still clutching hard at Yaniv's hand. 

"I can't," Yaniv said. 

"You said they couldn't come into Jehan," Rhahat said, his blunt nails digging into Yaniv's hand. 

"Not during the storm," Yaniv said, turning back and forth. He had been right; there was a copse of trees on this side of the cleaved mountain and the natural bridge, but nowhere to hide, not from Kur troops who already had the scent of their blood. 

"Doesn't the treaty — "

"Treaty only works if Mira stations troops across the border," Yaniv said. "Did you see any?"

"No," Rhahat said, frowning. 

"Come on," Yaniv said. 

Rhahat followed as they took off at a punishing pace, burning through energy with each step. Yaniv was just drawing his feet up through the snow and pushing them down again; his focus was narrowing down to that movement, only able to glance up on every third step to make sure they were still moving in the right direction. Rhahat's nerveless, cold hand was still clutched against his. With the veil in place he was able to push back some of Rhahat's fear, despite the pulses of it that rolled down the chain to him. 

Even with the distance, he could feel that Rhahat was thinking unerringly of what would happen when Kur caught up to them, and Yaniv had to push it back. He was coming alive with the knowledge that every step he took was on Jehan soil, and energy from that was rising through his veins, spurring him on with every step. He knew this place, the taste of the air on his tongue, the sheltering bows of the trees over their heads. 

Rhahat slowed, stumbling. Yaniv felt the stinging chill of the snow on Rhahat's face on his own, his hand half-lifted to wipe it away. He reached down and did it anyway, Rhahat shying away from the touch of Yaniv’s hand before he realised what it was.

"We'll never make it," Rhahat gasped, floundering on his knees in the snow.

"It has to be done," Yaniv said, trying to pull Rhahat to his feet, but the shake in his legs that prevented him from standing was nothing to do with physical strength. A choked sob came from him, his head turned down, but when Rhahat tipped his head up, Yaniv was startled to see he was laughing.

"It doesn't even matter, does it?" He grasped at his heart — at the letter in his cloak, which was damp with sweat and snow. 

"What?"

"It doesn't matter what we do," Rhahat said, voice high with panicked laugher. Yaniv fought the urge to slap him, instead crouching down and taking his face in both hands, trying to meet his eyes. Rhahat's breath was fast and high, his pulse jumping around. 

"The letter — "

"It's nothing to do with the letter," Rhahat said, his teeth chattering. Yaniv drew back his barrier and tried to show resolve in the face of whatever Rhahat was thinking, but it did nothing. He swallowed his own feelings and tried to breathe evenly, create silent space for Rhahat to speak. 

"Do you remember," Rhahat began, after a long moment, "when we were by the river and I was — I wanted to say something about gossip." Yaniv nodded and Rhahat sighed, a desperate, disparate thing. The blank dread behind his eyes was surfacing, his head weak on his neck and supported only by Yaniv's hands. "I heard something — I overheard something that I was not supposed to hear. I — " He reached up between Yaniv's arms and scrubbed at his face with his hand. "I have a habit of hearing things I'm not meant to hear." 

He turned his head up to Yaniv and met his eyes. "Kur has a god." 

Yaniv shrugged. "So do we — so do _you_." 

"Not me," Rhahat said. "Mira, maybe. And that's not what I meant. I didn't mean a _religion_, I meant a god." He grappled at Yaniv's wrists with hard, desperate fingers; Yaniv wasn't sure if Rhahat was trying to keep his hands there or tear them away. "They dug a god up from the earth."

Yaniv didn't know how to react beyond bemusement. "It's a rumour — a hearthfire story. Kur probably spread it themselves to scare you — us. It's probably just someone like you, with magic."

Rhahat scoffed, and Yaniv was glad, for once, to see a little of his usual ire, even when it was coming from him half-broken, still crouched deep in the snow. Yaniv could see the whites of his eyes. "There's not — there isn't anyone else like me." 

"Not — maybe not _like you_, but with Miran magic," Yaniv said, feeling like he was having a conversation he only half understood. "Just like you, but different."

"Miran magic?" Rhahat said, his bewilderment twinning with Yaniv's down the link until Yaniv began to feel dizzy. "There's not — only — _there's just me_."

"I don't understand — the thaumaturges — _you said — _" Yaniv stuttered, transported for a moment back into the dry, dusty barracks at the beginning of the summer, the air thick with sweat and boredom while the instructor droned on about blocking magic. Rhahat was at the desk beside him in the memory, suddenly and inexplicably, with a summer honey to his dark hair and skin. Yaniv had to shake off the memory by moving away, Rhahat blinking owlishly up at him. 

"What?" Rhahat said, mostly to himself, standing up, although he staggered again and almost tripped back into the snow. "Why would they — I don't understand."

"We have to go," Yaniv said. A thousand questions were still clamouring in his mind, but Rhahat's fear was overwhelming, and they needed to be on the move. Rhahat was back on his feet, and that meant he was shored up enough to walk, at least, and he gave Yaniv a thin-lipped nod as they set off again, his legs feeling heavier than even before. Yaniv held his tongue in the face of Rhahat's distress, struggling to conceal his confusion and anger. 

It was impossible to tell which was the truth. Mira not having magic was completely ridiculous — but there was no reason for Rhahat to tell such an outlandish lie. Yaniv tried to keep the link quiet, his mind occupied with thoughts and walking. 

It didn't shock him that Rhahat had lied again, nor the enormity of what he had concealed. It was just — hadn't enough happened for him to admit it without provocation? Last night clearly hadn't been enough for Rhahat to consider him trustworthy. He didn't want to consider that it had been meaningless to Rhahat when it had — when Yaniv had never felt a connection like that before.

"I have to eat soon," Rhahat gasped out as they continued, pushing himself to catch up to Yaniv's stride.

"I know," Yaniv said. "Me too."

"No, I mean, I really do," Rhahat said. "It's better now that the link is open, but I might burn out. Don't say you don't understand."

"I — " 

"_Don't_."

" — want to understand," Yaniv finished, tongue stupid in his mouth. Rhahat laughed and wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, though whether it was for sweat or tears Yaniv couldn't tell.

"If we had a house and a fire, a good bottle of wine and an hour," Rhahat said, tone too wistful for what Yaniv thought as base comforts. Still, the levity raised their steps a little, walking parallel between the trees. 

"I do have a cabin," Yaniv said, pushing down everything else he was thinking. He had to distract Rhahat before the distress overtook them both. 

"You do?" Rhahat said. "Why?"

"It's over — '_why_'?" 

Rhahat frowned. Yaniv thought maybe he had misspoken, but he didn't correct himself. 

"It's in the north," Yaniv continued. "I built it myself." It didn't take much to evoke a sense of it for Rhahat, the thick smell of pine sap and the chill of the wind, his back tired and hands roughened with labour. 

"Seems lonely," Rhahat said, and nothing else. Yaniv could feel the weighted thoughts that he was carrying; he wanted to reassure them both.

"They don't know Jehan like I do," Yaniv said, and it rang with truth.

"Nor do I," Rhahat said, and Yaniv was relieved to hear the sting of desperation was mostly gone from his voice, though it still lingered in the link. "It all looks the same."

Movement caught Yaniv's eye — he instinctively turned, placing his body between Rhahat and the threat. It was only a buck, half hidden behind a tree, that looked just as surprised to see them, turning and fleeing in a kicked-up flurry. Rhahat gasped, and when Yaniv turned his eyes were agleam with wonderment. 

But there was no time to linger in the moment. They had emerged from the mountain into a gulf, mountains rising on either side, lined with dark pines heavy with snow. The sun was bright above them, but the light felt distant and cool. The unnatural warmth that was buoying them was beginning to fade, Rhahat drawing up his hood. 

At least it was clear, the clouds retreating above them without a heavy promise of snow. That was a two-edged blade, Yaniv thought. It wouldn't impede them, but it wouldn't cover their tracks either. 

The gully kept opening wider as the mountains grew higher around them, the sun briefly dipping behind the peak as they entered the cold shadow. Yaniv hurried to cross it, Rhahat following, head down, until they emerged into the sunlight. Rhahat emptied the last of their canteen into his mouth, and crouched again. Yaniv waited to see if the conversation would continue.

"We can't outrun them forever," Rhahat said. "Can we find another cave?"

"I don't think so," Yaniv said. "Not when they have dogs."

"I _hate_ dogs," Rhahat said, and sighed, pushing his hood back down onto his shoulders. 

"Can't fight either," Yaniv said. "Not if they have numbers."

"We have to do _something_," Rhahat said. 

"There's one thing," Yaniv said, standing to his full height and turning into the wind. "We go where they won't follow."

"What?" Rhahat said, and standing too. "Where? If they'll cross into Jehan, where won't they follow?"

"They only cross into Jehan here because they know no one will know," Yaniv said. "Mira won't care, I mean. There's nothing here of value to them."

"Then _what_," Rhahat said, aligning himself directly with Yaniv. 

"Two or three days to the outpost," Yaniv said, "but if we turn and go directly to Mira from here, once they realise where we're going, they won't follow — "

"No," Rhahat said, suddenly, cutting Yaniv off completely. The firmness of his response shocked Yaniv; it felt like a slap. 

"No?" Yaniv said. "You've thought of something better?"

"I can't," Rhahat said. "I mean, I can't go to Mira. Not that — directly." 

"But you're Miran," Yaniv said. 

"Yes," Rhahat said from between his teeth. "But the fact that I'm not dead — I can't just walk into Mira."

"Chained to a Jehan."

"Chained to _someone else_," Rhahat said, twisting the cuff around his wrist. "There will be consequences." 

"Just tell them what happened," Yaniv said. "Maybe they know how to fix this."

Rhahat laughed, a choking gulp of a thing that hurt to listen to. "We just have to keep going," he said, reaching out for Yaniv's hand again. "Please." 

"All right," Yaniv said. Waves of hope and trust were radiating off Rhahat; Yaniv still couldn't parse the link well enough to tell if it was genuine or what Rhahat wanted him to feel. He wished for a bow and arrow to strike down the buck, but the chance was gone. Maybe that would convince Rhahat of how serious he was — of who he was, as a Jehan, a warrior. There was something honest in hunting that Rhahat would know nothing about, the stretch of the bow straining the muscles in his arms, his tempered breathing, the spill of blood onto snow. _That _was what these mountains were for, not whatever purpose Mira wished them to serve. "We'll have to fight, then."

"We can't — "

"If we fight," Yaniv said, pushing his voice past Rhahat's, "and you get a chance to go, you have to go. You have to deliver the letter."

Rhahat rattled at the chain. "In case you forgot — "

"I didn't forget," Yaniv said. "If you can go, you have to go."

Rhahat gave another thin-lipped nod, his dipped eyes telling Yaniv that he had grasped his meaning. There was not another moment left for conversation, no matter how hard Yaniv wanted to question all the things Rhahat had said. It was impossible to tell if he was being deliberately cryptic or if his thoughts were tainted by fear, bouncing between one idea and the next. 

Yaniv gripped Rhahat's hand and led him on, feeling like it was a march to the edge of a cliff. Rhahat was looking up as they walked, eyes searching towards the horizon as if he expected salvation to appear from the dim edge of the mountains. Yaniv led them up one side of the valley, to at least get some cover from the snow-covered pines. The difference between the temperature of the sun and the knitted shade of the trees was drastic; Yaniv's clothes felt thin against the wind. Rhahat's lips were blue when Yaniv looked over to him again, his hands tucked into his armpits as he stumbled along. 

Then Rhahat gasped, pulling the chain up short as he ducked down next to the trunk of a tree. Yaniv followed him down, confused, looking back and forth. There was no sight of the Kur force behind them, but he could still hear them on the wind, even though he had to strain to do so. They weren't silent in their progress, but talking and laughing, like men beating snakes out of undergrowth, the bark of dogs pitching further and further.

"I don't see anything," Yaniv said, quiet, Rhahat's hard hand on the back of his neck, keeping him low.

"Not behind," Rhahat said. "Ahead." 

Yaniv turned, expecting to see nothing but the further valley, an endless gulf with no salvation. But there was something breaking up the landscape, something he had to squint against the dying edge of the sun to see. Smoke. A column of smoke, rising up towards the sky, illuminated by the sunset. 

"What is it?" he said. Rhahat hissed through his teeth and stood, wrapping his cloak around himself. 

"I don't know," he said. Yaniv took his hands and roughly rubbed them until colour rose to pale skin. "But it has to be better than Kur."

"It's Jehan," Yaniv said. "It has to be — someone will help us."

Rhahat nodded, but his eyes were wary, like a fox crouching low to the ground. Yaniv started off, intending to cut straight through to the Jehan camp, but Rhahat pulled him back. "Careful," he said. "If the Kur see us first, it might not be enough."

Yaniv nodded, keeping to the trees at Rhahat's request, even though he thought it was a little strange; Kur wasn't nipping at their heels. They skirted around the trees towards the smoke, Yaniv wondering why he hadn't noticed it. That was meant to be his role. But the gnawing edge of hunger was returning from where the chain's energy had kept it at bay. Rhahat trailed behind; all he was pushing through the bond was the return of desperate hunger. 

The sun had dipped behind the mountain peak by the time they approached the edge of the camp, shrouded in pine shadows. Yaniv's ears were straining forward to catch any sound, but the wind was against him, pulling the sounds away. 

"They're here," Rhahat said, directly into his ear. 

Yaniv turned back. Kur soldiers were spilling into the valley. He couldn't count them from this distance; it just looked like a dark shadow pushing out against the snow. No horses — they wouldn't have made it through the deep snow and rocks — but the dogs were racing ahead, bounding through the banks. 

The camp was waking up, a loud horn being blown that rattled Yaniv's bones, the sound of metal against metal, voices raised. He tried to catch on to each one, desperate to hear a familiar word, but it took him a moment to realise he just wasn't comprehending the voices. It wasn't Jehan, it was Mira — and those were Miran soldiers emerging from the camp, their armour polished to a high sheen, each with a shield with the Miran arms painted on it in painstaking detail. They weren't just Miran infantry; this was something else. 

Yaniv wasn't breathing, his throat closing. It was like they were marching directly out of the stories his grandmother had told once the hearthfire was low, about _the shining river of Mira_. 

It took him a moment to realise that the only dread he felt was his own, the only fear his as well. He turned to Rhahat, who was looking at the posturing without a trace of emotion in his face or mind. 

"You knew," Yaniv said, as low as he could manage. "You knew Mira was here." 

Rhahat didn't answer, his posture rigid, arms stiff. There was nothing in his eyes except the reflection of Yaniv. The bulk of the trunk of the tree hid them from view, but Yaniv couldn't shake the feeling that even the sound of a breath would give them away. He heard the sound of bowstrings being stretched, and his skin thrummed with an answering tension, the memory of waiting for the command to release, his fingers and arms aching with effort. 

He grabbed Rhahat and shook him, waiting for life to return to his eyes. It came slowly, between long blinks, Rhahat suddenly looking directly into his eyes with the affronted look of someone who had been slapped. 

The Mirans were gathered now, shoulder to shoulder, their armour tinted red by the sun. Chatter was coming from them, the friendly banter of those who knew each other well. 

Rhahat's breath was too loud, bordering on gasps. Yaniv couldn't sense anything from him, though the veil was all but drawn back. Yaniv put his hand over Rhahat's mouth, his breath hot against his fingers. "What are they saying," he said, pressing so close to Rhahat that he barely had to move his lips to speak. 

"Ah — " Rhahat's lips shifted against Yaniv's palm. His eyes were distracted, flicking between the soldiers and Yaniv's face. They were too close to the Mira, but there was no way to move. This close, he doubted the Mira would think they were anything more than Kur spies. "They — they're wondering why the Kur are here." 

"Are they afraid?"

Rhahat smiled, teeth flashing sharp against the dark. Yaniv could feel the movement. "Them? No."

Yaniv could hear the rattle that accompanied the Kur's advance, the bash of sword against shield, over and over like a war drum. It reverberated in the ground, trembling in his legs and up into the rest of his body, pounding in his skull. He couldn't stop the shake. That sound — that sound was part of him now, hidden deep in the beat of his blood, a rattle of fear that he had never managed to escape. It had been the last thing before the battle that had ended with him on the ground, sure that the heat of his blood was the last warmth he would feel. 

They had only been there to guard the border. No Kur force had been meant to arrive, and if they did, Mira was supposed to crush them with all their might. 

It wasn't until Rhahat's hands were scrabbling at Yaniv’s wrist that he realised he had frozen, falling deep into his own mind. 

"We have to go," Rhahat said. "While they're distracted." 

The Mirans were marching forward to meet the Kur now, the wild flashing blades of the Kur curving through the air as the Mirans drew theirs, each of them wielding a dark blade that looked wet, the light around it drawn into it. Yaniv counted the Mirans — fifteen, maybe twenty, just one wreathed in the Miran flag, a cape spilling from his shoulders. 

"They'll be slaughtered," Yaniv said.

"Not them," Rhahat said, and he moved, suddenly, as the Mirans and Kur met each other, dark Kur leather mixing with the polished Miran armour, a sight that Yaniv couldn't tear his eyes away from until the chain pulled tight. Rhahat didn't stop, scrambling along the ground away from the battle but towards the camp, Yaniv trying to push away the sound of blades clashing against each other, the familiar bash of shields, the shouts of war. 

It hurt being pulled away from the battle. He wanted to be there in the flurry of action, wanted it to be his sword ripping through Kur flesh, wetting the snow with their blood. 

He'd last about a minute before one of the Mirans stuck him in the gut. For a moment he was back on the field where Rhahat had found him, the dying groans of his cohort echoing in his ears. He was here and there at the same time, images overlapping each other again and again until he was dizzy.

Time slowed as Rhahat led him on a swift loop around the Miran camp, knowing which things to take and which to leave; Yaniv could barely tell one thing from another, all his senses trained on the battle behind. They didn't speak. Yaniv kept watch, unable to see much over the peaks of the tents, only moving when Rhahat yanked on the chain, finally pulling him free of the camp, stumbling in the snow. 

He could smell blood thick in the air, but Rhahat was pulling him forward, skidding in the snow as the valley took a downward turn, snaking back down to the river. Yaniv followed Rhahat, the pale flash of the back of his neck whenever the hood slipped, or his face when he turned back to make sure Yaniv was still there. 

Then they were somewhere dark, Rhahat striking sparks, making them spray from his hands. Yaniv realised he was sitting on hard stone, raising his hands to look at them every time sparks illuminated the small cave Rhahat had tucked them into. The green wood Rhahat was trying to light would never burn. 

"Leave it," he said. His voice sounded harsh and gravelled; for a moment he didn't even recognise it as his own. Rhahat jumped and turned like he expected there to be a whole squadron in the cave behind him. "That'll never light."

"I've almost got it," Rhahat said, striking flint on steel again and sending another spray of sparks that danced on the floor of the cave. Yaniv could hear the wind outside shifting the trees, but none of the noises that he expected: the sounds of battle, of dying men. 

"It's green and wet," Yaniv said, moving forward to sort out the wood that Rhahat had gathered, reducing it down to the driest bark and twigs, and gentling the flint and tinder from his hands. After a moment he had a sheltered glow started at the mouth of the cave, where the wind pulled the smoke away, the flame guttering but giving off a small amount of warmth. Yaniv held his hands out towards it, the chain glinting in the dim, flickering light. 

Rhahat handed him something. He looked down at it for a moment, unable to comprehend what it was before his eyes adjusted and he saw it was a bun stuffed with meat, still somehow hot to the touch, dotted with raisins and onion. He devoured it in what felt like one bite, taking everything Rhahat passed to him until he felt full to bursting, washing it down with water so cold it hurt his teeth. 

It took him a moment to remember what had happened, cataloguing it in his mind. Rhahat looked a little wary, like he wasn't sure how Yaniv was going to react. 

"You knew the Miran camp was there," Yaniv said, slowly, "that's why you didn't want to change course."

"Not exactly," Rhahat said. "I knew there was _a _camp somewhere in these mountains. Besides, what does it matter? Aren't you working together with Mira in the treaty?"

"Whatever _that_ was," Yaniv said, trying to steady his voice, "it's certainly not covered by any terms of the treaty. Mira is only meant to be on the border, and accompanied by Jehan."

"Is that what the treaty says?" Rhahat said, overly airy. "I've not read it."

"If that was true you would have just told me that they were there," Yaniv said. "You wouldn't have lied."

"I didn't lie," Rhahat said, affronted. "I didn't even really know where they were."

"You told me there were thaumaturges. You won't tell me what's in that letter. You are a spy," Yaniv said, distancing himself as far as he could, which meant leaning away. "A Miran spy — all this time — "

"Of course," Rhahat snapped, "spies are known to be chained to other people — dragging them around — "

"For all I know — "

"I _wish _I was a spy!"

" — you've just done this to — "

"I wish I was chained to anyone else!"

" — destroy Jehan!"

"I don't care about Jehan!" Rhahat shouted, and the only reason Yaniv could tell whose anger was whose was because Rhahat's was old and burnt out, a cracked tree filled with hot ash. "I don't care about Mira either. I just want to get out of here alive." Then he burrowed his head in his hands, the fire washed out by bitter water.

"So do I," Yaniv said. "But you've been lying to me since we met. You told me that the Miran mages were coming."

"What did you want me to say," Rhahat said. "Tell you Mira's biggest secret a few seconds after meeting you?"

"You might have done it after you fucked me," Yaniv said, and then regretted it immediately, his face flaming red. 

"You think this is fun for me? At least you chose to be here," Rhahat spat. 

"Chose."

"You're in the army."

"I _chose_ to be here?"

"Well, not _here_," Rhahat said, seemingly unaware of Yaniv's tone. "But in the war, I mean."

"I — "

"A soldier — "

"Shut up," Yaniv growled, and Rhahat shut his mouth, suddenly, eyes flicking up to meet Yaniv's. "You don't know me — you don't know who I am. I was drafted — _every_ Jehan was drafted by Mira. This isn't our war." 

Rhahat scoffed. "Mira is protecting you from Kur."

"Only to take it for themselves." 

"You should say 'yourself'," Rhahat said, eyes narrowed and hard. "Did you forget I'm Miran too?"

"Then tell me why there's a Miran force in the mountains, violating the treaty, that you knew about!" 

"All I heard was that there _might _be a camp up here," Rhahat said, through his teeth, "and I used that information to save your life."

"To save your own life." 

"Maybe to save _everyone's_ life," Rhahat snapped. "Did you forget why we're here in the first place?"

"The only reason I'm here is because you decided to — "

"I _decided_ to save your life!" Rhahat said. "Should I not have done that?" "If it means I'm in service to Mira," Yaniv said, "then no, you shouldn't have." 

Rhahat's glare was painful to meet, but Yaniv did his best, his tense jaw creaking with pressure. 

"I don't understand why you hate Mira so much," Rhahat said. 

"Of course you don't, you're Miran," Yaniv said. 

"What's so good about Jehan then," Rhahat said. "So far I've only seen snow and — you." His voice caught, just for a second, but it was enough to make Yaniv's heart catch too. 

"It's not about Jehan being better," Yaniv said, and the anger was leaching out of his voice, replaced by a deep tiredness, the words slipping over his tongue so old that they felt like they were coming from someone else's body. "It's because Mira used to be Jehan — Jehan was always here."

"I don't understand," Rhahat said.

Yaniv sighed. "What did they teach you in school?"

Rhahat's voice was cold. "Not much."

"No, I mean — I don't know what they say in Miran school."

"Neither do I," Rhahat said, and he turned around, wrapping himself in his cloak until he was lying with his back to Yaniv, curled in on himself. Dark bitterness was still flowing from him like slow, cold water that travelled up Yaniv's back. He was caught between the fire in his blood and the feeling that he'd wounded Rhahat, who had crawled into the forest to die like a buck with a badly placed arrow in its side. 

He knew he was right about Mirans. They had their magic, their all-knowing parliament, and each of them wore a cloak of arrogance and power like they were born to it, which they believed they were. Rhahat could read and write, he had his magic, and he could speak Jehan with the crisp accent of a Miran who had never been corrected on pronunciation by a mother tongue. Yaniv simply couldn't believe what he was being told, but no one would lie so outlandishly, he thought. Rhahat was the exception to Mirans — he had to be.

_I have been known to lie_, the memory of Rhahat said. 

"Stop thinking," the real Rhahat said. "I'll wake up in two hours for watch."

Yaniv nodded, even though Rhahat was turned away, and sat there, cross-legged and straight-backed, trying to listen to the wind and not his own nagging thoughts. 

*

Rhahat woke as promised, and Yaniv was gifted several hours of surprisingly restful sleep, remembering nothing but darkness and the quiet sensation of his body. 

Rhahat shook him awake just before dawn, pulling him up like a fish on a line. There was breakfast, more Miran food that Yaniv found too bland and too unfamiliarly spiced at the same time; he chewed through it warily. Rhahat didn't say anything, just watched him eat until they were ready to move on, nothing to indicate he was still angry or ready to continue the argument. 

Rhahat's habit of only telling part of the truth and hoping it was enough made Yaniv feel like there was still more to come. Beyond that, Rhahat had about sixty different ways to draw the conversation away from what Yaniv wanted to talk about. Yaniv didn't know how far Rhahat would go to dodge his questions. Cut off his own arm? At least that would free Yaniv from helping Mira. 

Then it was time to go, Yaniv turning to look at the cave once more to fit it into his mind as a place he would remember. Maybe he'd do the journey in reverse one day, alone, when the sun rose at night and Jehan was whole again. 

"Where are we?" Rhahat asked as they pushed out into the world.

"You led us here," Yaniv said, his voice sounding far more mulish than he intended. 

"It was dark," Rhahat said. "I wasn't exactly looking where I was going — and you were no help." 

Yaniv tensed his jaw and cast his gaze around instead. He didn't know where they were; somewhere further up and then down the mountain from where they had started, the Miran camp back south and high above them. The cave was carved out into a little jut of rock that Yaniv never would have spotted in the dark. How far had Rhahat brought them through unfamiliar terrain, the sounds of battle echoing behind them, blood pounding in his ears, with Yaniv silent behind him? He swallowed. He felt contrite, but apologising didn't seem right. 

"Follow me," he said instead, and Rhahat did, as they turned towards the sun and then away again. The way off the cave shelf was narrow, but Yaniv felt more surefooted after his rest. Rhahat followed without complaint until they were back on the side of the mountain, probably only two or three hours off course. 

"Tomorrow?" Rhahat said, as they made their way back onto the side of the mountain. It hadn't snowed much, but the air hadn't warmed enough to melt any of the snow either, the same crisp crunching of their footsteps breaking through into the powder below. Rhahat had on a pair of Miran gloves that Yaniv hadn't noticed before, and they even had a little stitched design of the Mira flag in the crook between the thumb and first finger. It was like they had to mark everything.

"Tomorrow what?"

"We'll arrive tomorrow," Rhahat said. "It's not a holiday, if you'd forgotten."

"Tomorrow or the day after," Yaniv said.

Rhahat sighed. "I dreamed in Jehan last night."

"So?"

"That's not — I've never dreamed in Jehan before."

"Does it mean anything?"

"Means I'm spending too much time with you," Rhahat said. 

"Ah," Yaniv said, and he couldn't stop the corner of his lips twitching in what he thought might be the start of a smile, ducking his head so Rhahat couldn't see. "I'm not dreaming in Miran."

"You'd be upset about it if you were," Rhahat said. He was straining to make his tone light and Yaniv could tell. He stilled his tongue and led Rhahat on instead, trying to keep his thoughts out of his head and his mind on the task. He had to divert his attention from the fact that his heart was thumping at the idea of walking into a Miran camp, with his hands by his sides and a smile on his face, trying to ignore the war drum in his body telling him to take up the nearest sword. 

Rhahat was feeling what Yaniv was feeling; he could tell, like striking metal with his sword and hearing it ring. He tried to quell the feelings, but Rhahat didn't say anything, just walked behind him, the sounds of his steps the only sign of his presence. He was being elusive, as usual. 

Yaniv knew at this point that he could no more drive answers out of Rhahat by force than he could break through the mountain with his sword. More and more it was beginning to feel like he didn't care enough about Yaniv to answer a single question. Was that what they would find at the Miran camp? Mirans who had given up even the pretence of caring about Jehan? Yaniv narrowed his eyes and worried at the inside of his cheek, trying to force inelegant words into a pointed question. 

The sun rose, milky fingers of it questing between the pines and illuminating the snow with a hundred thousand tiny flares of light. Landmarks were becoming familiar to Yaniv. He knew this peak, but not from this side. Home was not within sight, but he could _feel _it. If he was shot home like an arrow from a bow, it would be a straight line from here to the target.

He had to ask, he decided. Even if Rhahat turned to him and said something cutting, or lied, or simply didn't answer, he had to ask. When they arrived at the camp and he was questioned by whatever Jehans were stationed there, his story had to be believable, at the very least — it had to show him taking some action. He opened his mouth. 

"We should fuck again soon," Rhahat said, and it took three or four full seconds before Yaniv comprehended what he had said, the words drifting through his head before they made sense. 

"What?"

"I know you heard me," Rhahat said.

"I'm — I'm surprised you can even think of — that," Yaniv said, stumbling over his words. Rhahat had caught him off-balance and he knew it, the spark in his eye returning. 

"Hm," Rhahat said, and then held his wrist up, pulling the cuff out from under his glove. Yaniv remembered how it had looked when the link was closed, bone-white and brittle, dull, without a single facet of the lustre he remembered when it had laid across his thigh, feeling like it was going to burn his skin. Now, it looked in between the two, not charged with power but not starved either, the gold beginning to pale. "It helps."

"You're crazy," Yaniv said. 

"If only," Rhahat said. "Although what we did before helped it too." 

His voice was so matter-of-fact that it made Yaniv's skin crawl, the bare acknowledgement, the facts laid bare — he couldn't stand it, wishing he could pull away from Rhahat. He breathed deeply instead and tucked his nose into the collar of his coat, trying to compose himself. 

"How did you even — figure _that _out," he said, before he could stop himself, hoping his voice was too muffled to encourage an answer. 

"Let's not ask questions we don't want the answer to," Rhahat said, voice too light once more. He pushed the cuff back into the glove and followed on. 

Thoughts swirled through Yaniv's head; he buried them all as deep as he could and bit his tongue until they stayed covered, reaching down to grip awkwardly at the hilt of his sword just to feel something solid in his hand. Rhahat's thoughts were veiled, but just enough was filtering down the link that Yaniv could tell that he wasn't upset about anything he had said, or how Yaniv had reacted — or anything at all. He had been more angry during the argument last night than he was now, and that struck Yaniv as _wrong_, like he cared more about Mira — and Yaniv's opinion of Mira — more than anything about himself. 

"What?" Rhahat said. 

"What?" Yaniv said.

"You just — you think too much," Rhahat said. "And you never say what you're thinking."

"Can't you just feel it," Yaniv said, trying to just focus on the terrain ahead and not what Rhahat was saying, feeling. "Does it even matter?"

"Yes," Rhahat said, which made Yaniv frown at his certainty, trying not to say, _if you won't tell me the truth, why do you care_, which he was pretty sure would just lead into the same argument as the previous night. 

"Can't we talk about this after we deliver the letter?" Yaniv said. "Surely you have more important things to occupy your thoughts."

"Not really," Rhahat said. "You're the one making me walk behind you all the way."

"I don't — _Rhahat_," Yaniv said. 

"I think that's the first time you've properly said my name," Rhahat said, delighted, and the joy that flooded down the link put an unexpected spring into Yaniv's next few steps. "Although your pronunciation is terrible." 

"My — what? How else can you say it?" 

"Rhahat," Rhahat said.

"That's what I said."

"It's not."

"It is." Yaniv swung around to look at him, expecting a mischievous grin or a sparkle in his eyes, but instead Rhahat's grin was forced as he looked up at Yaniv, sweat a sheen on his forehead that Yaniv didn't think had much to do with the heat of the sun, which was bouncing off the snow so that he had to narrow his eyes. The bond opened a little more, and Yaniv could feel that it was like a deep pool draining water, all the energy, everything he had drawn on through Yaniv plunging away into nothingness.

"It's not like this — I've never felt this before," Rhahat said, voice ending with a soft gasp for air that Yaniv felt in his own body. 

"I didn't think Miran magic would be like this," Yaniv said. He leaned down and helped Rhahat forward a few steps, to a place where the snow was thinner and easier to walk on, Rhahat leaning down to scoop a few handfuls of powder and scrub it over his flushed face.

"Like what?" he said. 

"So — physical," Yaniv said, after thinking to settle on the right word. "Demanding."

"Physically demanding," Rhahat said, as if to taste the words on his tongue. He leaned a little on Yaniv, who allowed it, shoring himself up to support his weight. "What did you imagine it was like?"

Yaniv made a little gesture with his hands, a sweeping with his fingers that Rhahat looked down on, brow furrowed, then back up to Yaniv's face. 

"That doesn't mean anything," he said. 

Yaniv looked down at his hands again and made another little gesture that he thought conveyed what he meant. Rhahat widened his eyes and shook his head. 

"What are the others like?" Yaniv said.

"Others who?"

"The other people," Yaniv said. "Who have magic." 

Rhahat looked down and then put the corner of his thumb into his mouth, setting his teeth against the nail there, then looked up at Yaniv again. Confusion was swirling in the bond, enough that Yaniv couldn't tell whose was whose.

"What did I say wrong?" Yaniv said.

"Did you not believe me? There _are _no others," Rhahat said, like he had to spit out the words. "There's just me."

"It can't be true," Yaniv said. "Miran magic — "

"Miran magic is _gone_," Rhahat said, and it came out of him in a half-shout. He pushed himself away from Yaniv with strength that surprised them both, sending him stumbling. "It's gone."

"At least lie _credibly_," Yaniv snapped, rattling at the chain on his wrist, the cuff gleaming in the sun. "How can I believe you when you've been using it _on me_!"

"I — "

"They trained us to block your magic," Yaniv continued, his voice rising. "Why would they do that if there was nothing to block?"

"I don't — "

"I've heard every story of what Miran magic has done," Yaniv said. "Cities drawn up from the earth, water from the sky, plants sprouting from the rock, wealth and fullness from _nothing_. That's why Mira thrives."

"Not any more," Rhahat said. "Perhaps we tapped the rock and the earth has nothing more to offer."

"Explain," Yaniv said. "Because I've heard stories — I've seen the scars of what Miran war magic does."

"Before I was born," Rhahat said, looking down at his hands again, pushing up the glove he was wearing to touch the cuff — no, to run his fingers along the line of scar there. Yaniv watched him for a moment, then turned to look up at the edge of the trees, the sky beyond. The wind was still and silent for a moment, and he knew they had to move on, but Rhahat was fighting with his words, unable to make them flow free. "Fifty — maybe sixty years ago, it dried up. The Miran spring, as it were. The magic is gone. No one is born with it, and anyone who had it can't use it any more."

"Why?" Yaniv said, biting into his tongue to stop himself from saying more.

"I don't know," Rhahat said. "Maybe we used it all up. A finite resource."

"Except you," Yaniv said. 

"Yes," Rhahat said. "Except me." And he looked so mournful and alone that Yaniv's heart twisted with a deep cut of pity that made Rhahat look up sharply and move away, frowning. "Don't," he said. "It doesn't mean anything. Maybe it's returning and I'm just the first. Believe me, I've heard every theory. I don't think it matters."

"They had their magic — you — during the first war," Yaniv said, remembering the particular pepper-pattern of war magic scars. He had seen it on many people back home, some on the arms or legs, the back, a few across the face, forever disrupting the scars there in a way that made the eye catch, like a blot of ink smearing a familiar word. 

"Which?"

"The first war," Yaniv said. "Against Jehan. Fifty — sixty years ago."

"Mira's never fought Jehan," Rhahat said. 

"My family fought in that war," Yaniv said, frowning. "My grandparents — "

"I've never — Mira protects Jehan. Why would we fight against them?"

"Mira protects its own interest in Jehan," Yaniv snapped. 

Rhahat sighed. "Are we going to have the same fight again?" He pulled down his glove over the cuff and pushed his hands through his hair, again ending with that stuttering motion as he reached the tips, expecting to continue. "You believe what you believe and I'll believe what I — "

"No," Yaniv said. "I've seen the — I've heard the stories — "

"Stories," Rhahat said.

"The truth," Yaniv said. Rhahat shrugged.

"It's the same, isn't it? We've both been told — "

"_No_," Yaniv said. 

"Then there's nothing to talk about," Rhahat said, and he turned and began to walk away. He was still flushed, snowflakes dampening the edges of his hair, caught in his eyelashes like tears. Yaniv stood still until the last possible moment that he had to move forward, the cuff insistent on his wrist. 

The argument boiled in him against the chill of the air. He had expected — still expected, in fact — Rhahat to get angry about it, talk about the first war from Mira's perspective, say something like _Jehan struck first _and Yaniv could say _where, and with what? _But to deny it — no, to not even seem to know about it . Yaniv didn't know what to do. 

He chewed on his bottom lip as they walked and tried not to think about it, even though he knew he was spilling confusion and agitation through the bond, trying to draw his screen tight. He doubted Rhahat was taking much notice, because his end of the bond was open almost to the quick, that hunger inside him not quelled by any means. 

Yaniv swallowed his anger once more. Nothing he said now would be able to change anything — to help either of them. The only question that was hanging over his head was what was in that damned letter. 

And so they ascended again, the air growing thin and thick with cloud again, the valleys below fading away into nothingness, only the tips of the other mountains showing through. They walked until the sun began to fade, and until Yaniv was able to bring them to a stop again, Rhahat weaving his steps. 

"There," he said. Rhahat lifted his head but his eyes didn't follow for a few moments, until he was sighting along the line of Yaniv's finger, where glimmering fires lit the edge of the camp, indistinguishable from stars on the black canvas of the sky. 

"That's it?" Rhahat said, leaning forward until Yaniv had to reach out to steady him to keep him from sliding down to the ridge, his feet slipping in the snow. "That's the camp?" He yearned towards it like a dog straining towards a distant scent.

"It should be," Yaniv said. 

"Let's go," Rhahat said, pulling on the chain without turning.

"No," Yaniv said. "Approaching in the dark — that's a good way to get an arrow in the throat."

"Ah," Rhahat said, "as opposed to the day, where they can see us coming and aim the arrows clearly."

"Better than being sneakthieves," Yaniv said. "And I think you need the rest."

Rhahat scoffed. "You don't tell me what I need." 

Yaniv frowned, but he could still see the sweat beading on Rhahat's forehead, his face pale and flushed at the same time, like when he had not woken from sleep. Yaniv opened his end of the bond a little, just to see if it would help with the flow of energy, but it was sluggish and didn't seem to pour into Rhahat how it had when it had first opened, an endless channel of fire. He sought that fire now, trying to push it along the chain, but nothing happened. He wasn't Miran; he didn't know what he was doing. 

Rhahat sat in the snow like he could no longer stand, scooping a handful up and pressing it against his face and neck, sighing with relief. 

"What do you need?" Yaniv said. 

Rhahat rolled his head on his neck and looked up at Yaniv, his eyes drifting up and away from him towards the sky.

"I've been asked nicer ways," he said. 

Yaniv flushed. "I — that's not what I meant."

"I'm sure it isn't," Rhahat replied, the edge of his tongue pressing between his teeth. "I don't need — I don't want anything."

"From me."

"From anyone," Rhahat said, twisting hard at the cuff on his wrist. "I don't need anything from anyone." He said it to himself, pushing down on the snow to stand once more, even if it made him teeter a little. 

"I can feel it," Yaniv said. He reached out to steady Rhahat, who moved away from his hand, but slowly, and without malice, just a bone-deep tiredness. "I can feel what's happening." 

"That's the Miran magic you wanted to know so much about," Rhahat said, making a funny little gesture with his hand that Yaniv recognised as his own. "That's what it does." His words were a little slurred. "Burns you from the inside out." 

"Let me help you," Yaniv said.

"No," Rhahat said, and his tone was final. He was trembling just enough that it was noticeable, the movement of his eyes darting between the camp and Yaniv, his teeth sinking into his lip.

"Is it meant to be like that?" Yaniv asked. Rhahat stumbled back and leaned on a tree, gradually sinking down until he was half crouched in the snow. He looked up at Yaniv, eyes like ice. "I mean — people must remember what it's like."

"I've read things," Rhahat said, slowly, resting his head on his knees. His body was jittery, hands clenching at his own legs. "People talk about it like an endless well. For me, it's always needed someone else." 

"Always?"

"Since it manifested," Rhahat said. "Do you need me to explain everything?"

"Yes," Yaniv said. "I've never even seen magic before."

"Oh," Rhahat said, animosity draining from his tone. "Right. Jehan gods never saw fit to bless their people?" He gave Yaniv a sidelong glance and a weak smile that spurred Yaniv on.

"This is what I don't understand," Yaniv said, crouching next to Rhahat and taking his hands, peeling the gloves away from his clammy fingers. He started chafing them. "Why do Mirans bother to learn Jehan if they don't learn anything about them?"

"Say 'you', not 'Mirans'," Rhahat said. "And I taught myself."

"Yourself?" 

"I had a lot to listen to," Rhahat said. "Tell me about your gods, then. Maybe they can compete with Kur's." A note of fear entered his mind; he was thinking of the Kur god again. 

"We believe," Yaniv said, slowly, trying to think about the correct phrasing, Rhahat's cold fingers slipping in his grip, "that the gods formed the world and then left it."

Rhahat frowned. "That's it?" 

"No," Yaniv said. 

"You could be more descriptive," Rhahat said, but he was ducking his head to hide a brief smile. "Is that how you tell each other the history?"

"No," Yaniv said again. The open space of the valley below and the sky above made Yaniv feel exposed, like they could fall up into the bowl of the sky. They were still caught between Kur and Mira, despite the fact that there was no sign of either. He took Rhahat's hand and pulled him up, Rhahat darting paranoid eyes through the trees. Further into the copse, they were protected from sight and the wind, which gentled down to a breeze that shushed through the knitted boughs. Rhahat settled again, his movements still jittery.

Yaniv tried to remember nights spent around the fire, the sparks drifting up and off into the darkness of the night. He closed his eyes. Pretty words didn't come as easily to him as they did to others, and he wanted Rhahat to appreciate the story. "The gods made the world for us, and then left us with the knowledge they would one day return to reverse what they had done."

"What," Rhahat said, fingers curling against Yaniv's palm, "your own gods will destroy the world?" Yaniv felt his heart speed up and the swell of that same deep fear that plagued Rhahat at any mention of the Kur god. He squeezed Yaniv's hand until it was just on the edge of painful.

Yaniv opened his eyes into the night. He couldn't see the valley, or the mountains behind it, except as dark cut-outs in the expanse of the sky, the constellations blazing in the unfettered night. He felt unanchored. The only thing keeping him down on the ground was the slim grip of Rhahat's hand, warming from Yaniv's attention. 

"They'll unmake it and start again," Yaniv said. "But only when it's complete." 

Rhahat looked up like he expected it to happen at any moment. "I don't know what that means."

"It doesn't really mean anything," Yaniv said. "It's not like it's going to happen next year."

Rhahat was quiet for a moment more, his hands still and warm in Yaniv's grip. He was calmer now, , over the drain on his energy that Yaniv could still feel. It seemed the telling of the tale had soothed him, despite the fact Yaniv had not told it well. "What did you mean," he said, voice low, "when you said the Kur god was an old story?" 

"I said that?"

"Earlier," Rhahat said. His gaze was vacant. 

"The story is that — well, if you didn't like ours, you're not going to like this."

"I'm not a child," Rhahat said. "Stories are stories. That's not what I'm afraid of." 

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Yaniv didn't speak up about it. He knew Rhahat as well as could be humanly expected, having a direct line to his emotions, but he was also a complete enigma. If he wouldn't speak about things, that was his decision, but if Yaniv upset him, that was Rhahat's fault for making him blunder in the dark. There were no nice words, but Rhahat had asked, so — Yaniv grimaced. 

"They worship their gods who take the guise of humans and then they eat them to spread divinity throughout the people," he said, in a rush. 

Rhahat's face was a sight to behold, eyes wide, expression confused. Then he started laughing, a little too loud, snatching his hand from between Yaniv's to cover his mouth, his shoulders shaking with it. 

"Don't — make things up," he gasped, pressing his lips together. They still quirked with sharp-edged laughter. 

"I'm not," Yaniv said. "I did say it was just a story." 

"I can't believe that," Rhahat said.

"It's not like it's a nation of monsters," Yaniv said.

"You — _you're _defending them?" Rhahat said. "You hate them more than I do — than anyone I've ever met. More afraid of them, too."

"I'm not _afraid_," Yaniv said. 

"Don't lie to me, of all people," Rhahat said. "I can feel it."

"It wasn't always like this," Yaniv said. "We used to trade with Kur. They sent their emissaries to our king. My — my grandfather was Kur." 

"Really," Rhahat said, squinting to see Yaniv in the moonlight. "I'm not sure I would have ever guessed that." 

"All I'm saying," Yaniv said, "is there are things about them that we don't know."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Rhahat said, closing his eyes. His hand still rested in Yaniv's; he could feel the flutter of Rhahat's pulse in his wrist. 

"What about you?" Yaniv said.

"Me or Mira," Rhahat replied, his eyes still closed.

"Are they different?"

"Mira has many gods," Rhahat said. "I have none."

"No patron god?"

"I don't believe in them," Rhahat said, in a tone that marked the discussion closed, deliberately ignoring Yaniv's growing curiosity. If Rhahat could be elusive, he was definitely feeling better, Yaniv thought, pushing the fondness it elicited away from the link. They couldn't stay here forever, no matter how much he wanted to. The conversation was over and Rhahat's hands were warm, so there was no reason to linger. 

Yaniv scanned the landscape for cover. The land had been kind to them thus far, even in Kur, but it seemed that kindness had reached its end. There was nothing beyond where they were but the sharp trunks of leafless trees, their limbs spidering out to the dark sky. Nothing rose out from the ground, no friendly rock or cave. It looked like a clear sweep from where they were down to the camp, the hearth fires looking warm even from their distant vantage point. 

"We might have to go down," Yaniv said.

"But you said — yes," Rhahat said. 

Yaniv reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around his knife, feeling up and down the length of the blade, the weight of it in his hand. He took it out of his pocket, then, and handed it to Rhahat, the act conveying something he couldn't speak. Rhahat looked down at the knife and then up at Yaniv, his narrowed, questioning eyes showing that Yaniv's thought hadn't made its way to him.

"What?" Rhahat said. "Should I just cut my arm off and be done with it?"

"No," Yaniv said. "Before — you said it helped."

"What did?" Rhahat said.

Yaniv knelt before him, feeling stupid and awkward, and unbuttoned his jacket, baring his neck to the cold, then his shirt, his skin rippling with goosebumps, nipples tightening. He held the knife out to Rhahat once more, who took it with careful, considering fingers, sliding it from its sheath. It gleamed in the cold light, the last few rays of the sun finally dipping beneath the mountain, leaving them in a hazy half-light. Yaniv was panting, his body tightening in anticipation, his breaths hot on the air.

"You're afraid," Rhahat said. His grip on the knife was tight enough that his knuckles were white; it was holding him up. 

Yaniv shook his head. 

"I can feel it," Rhahat said, and sheathed the knife again, pushing silver steel back into dark leather. The click felt final. 

Yaniv looked up and then back down, adrenaline — anticipation that had been curling around his ribs and stomach — fading away until just stupidity remained, and he was shivering at Rhahat's feet in the cold. 

"I'm tired of people being afraid of me," Rhahat said, his hand lax around the knife. 

"I'm not — " Yaniv didn't know how to put it into words. He leaned forward instead, reaching out to Rhahat's hand. Rhahat thought he was reaching for the knife and surrendered it, letting it fall into Yaniv's hand without protest. 

Yaniv pushed it back up into Rhahat’s palm and curled his fingers around it, bringing his thumb to Yaniv's mouth and pressing them together, not quite a kiss but an open-mouthed movement, a supplication. He felt the moment Rhahat understood him, his other hand rising to brush at the side of Yaniv's face, thumb across his scars. 

"I wish we weren't here," Rhahat said. He gripped the back of Yaniv's hair and pulled his head back, a frisson of pain running through his scalp. The pressure was hard, but not hard enough. Rhahat used Yaniv's hand to slip the knife free of the sheath. It pitched down into the snow and lay there like a dead leaf. "The things I'd do." 

He pressed the flat of the knife against Yaniv's neck, the cold shock of it making him shiver, and slid it down, slowly, over his collarbone, turning it so Yaniv could feel the sharp edge of the blade. The reminder that this was the knife he had used on his own arm made him shudder, again looking down to try and see the scar he knew was not there. 

The knife slipped against his side. He felt nothing, then a hot line of pain across his ribs. No, pain wasn't right. It felt Rhahat had marked him, just with a short scratch. He wanted more. He leaned towards the knife. 

"Yes," Rhahat said. He drew another line next to the first. Yaniv watched his wrist move with the movement, the veins and tendons shifting underneath his skin, the delicate movement provoking a fiery sting up his side. Yaniv gasped, the sound a little wet, as the point of the knife pulled through his flesh. His blood spilled. He didn't need to look down to know it. It was warm and wet on his side, rolling down in fat droplets. 

He wanted Rhahat to push the knife further, to feel it slide against his bone. He wanted to lean forward and fit his mouth around the shape of Rhahat's cock under his trousers. He couldn't think, but there was no need to. 

Rhahat swore, his breath carrying the curse, warm on the side of Yaniv's face. He reached up and slid his thumb against Yaniv's lips until he opened his mouth. Rhahat pushed his thumb inside his wet mouth and pressed on Yaniv's tongue, until Yaniv choked on it, the pressure hard enough to be satisfying.

Yaniv could feel the link reopening, not to its full strength but enough to energise Rhahat, who withdrew and leaned down to press his palm over the cuts on Yaniv’s side. Yaniv did look down, then, just to see the clean edges of the scratches, the beads of blood welling there. 

"More," he said. 

"That's all I need to get us there," Rhahat said, knife pointed down to the snow. A drop of Yaniv's blood welled at the tip and hung there, but didn't fall. Yaniv reached out and closed his hands around Rhahat's again, pulling the knife back up until it pointed right at him. 

"_More_," he said.

"Ah," Rhahat said, and Yaniv felt the moment when Rhahat caught on to what he was feeling, arousal building in his thighs and groin, his cock already half-hard. It was as if Rhahat had reached out and cupped his cock. He wanted that jolt of contact. "Is there even anything I can do that would hurt you?" 

Yaniv shuddered, his skin warming against the snow, knowing how foolish it would be for Rhahat to do this here, now, in the freezing snow and under the bleak sky, clouds and stars mixed together above the bowl of the valley. It was going to happen. It was inevitable. 

A low sound built and grew, flowing over him. He thought it was the wind. He closed his eyes. Healing heat built in Rhahat's hand. Yaniv bared his teeth, ready to push Rhahat's hands away, but the sound grew louder, and he realised what it was. A war horn, the sound lancing through him. 

Rhahat swore. "Impossible," he said. 

Yaniv struggled with his shirt, Rhahat snatching back his blood-smeared hand as he turned, peering up above them. Torches burned on the mountain's peak, a trail of flame that was headed down towards them. Yaniv's heart leapt. He stood, turning towards the mountain, feeling the drop of the valley behind him as a physical presence. 

The horn stopped, then sounded again, a deep resonance that shook the very air around them. Rhahat sheathed the knife, bloody, and pressed it into Yaniv's hand. 

"Go," Yaniv said, and it was all that he spoke, grasping at Rhahat's arm hard enough to bruise and pulling him down the ridge with him, their feet sliding on powdery snow, rocks, dead leaves and grass. Thunder followed in their wake. Yaniv didn't turn to look, afraid of what he would see, a hundred — a thousand Kur horses racing down the mountain, a force larger than all of Jehan that would crush them underfoot and move on to the camp. 

They slid down, half standing, half falling, Yaniv maintaining his grip on Rhahat's arm. Rhahat didn't protest, didn't stop. The horn was all around them. He turned his head, just to the side, expecting to see a soldier, a horse, anything. There was nothing, just darkness and dead trees. 

Something cracked above them. Rhahat went down, plunging hip deep into loose snow. Yaniv seized him and pulled him up again, the horn still blasting behind them, the lights of the camp blazing and far away. 

There wasn't enough breath in his lungs to spur him on. Each step he took made his sword bang against his legs, the Kur pack unwieldy. He shrugged out of it, let it fall. They could take it back. Rhahat was floundering again. Frustration boiled at the back of Yaniv's throat. He reached to pull Rhahat up again. 

They were sliding, the snow a crisp, thin layer on a steep slope — he tipped over backwards and saw the stars, then rolled, the chain tangling around his body. The whole ground was moving. He heard Rhahat cry out as they were tumbled down, snow rising, shrouding them in a blizzard. He lost all direction, the whole world a whirl of white, wrapping his hand in the chain and pulling, hoping to draw Rhahat near. 

Movement stopped. He blinked, hard, his eyes crusted with snow, tears leaking out. The chain was the only thing that told him which way was up, his arm caught painfully behind his back. Yaniv pushed himself up, breaking through into air and sky. He whooped in a deep breath. 

The chain was glowing bright between them, the light searing into his eyes. He slowly reached out to it, worried it would be hot to the touch. It felt warm, but not burning. He pulled at it, following it until Rhahat's hand appeared, thrusting up through the top of the snow. Yaniv pulled him up once more. He was shivering, eyes wide. Yaniv brushed the snow off him briskly. 

There was still torches behind them when he glanced. They were deep in the bowl of the valley; the lights of the camp seemed close enough to reach out and sear his skin. Rhahat was cold, mind in shock. He followed when Yaniv walked, without questioning, pushing their way out of the snow until they were on the valley's floor, the high mountains rising around them. 

Yaniv felt trapped, and it spurred him on. He was moving too fast and too slow at the same time, the heat from the chain burning against his wrist. He could feel his bruises fading just from that warmth, the jarring in his knees evening out with each step. He had to force himself to slow down so that Rhahat could keep up, even though he didn't protest or call out. Nothing — he could feel nothing but the pound of his feet on the ground, hear nothing but the whistle of the wind in his ears, the cold air on his face. 

A gust across the side of his head. An arrow standing in the snow. Mirans didn't make warning shots. He pulled his coat tighter around him, pulled Rhahat further up, hoping they could be seen, knowing they were two dark figures in a darker night. Rhahat was next to him, his stride matching Yaniv's. 

He didn't realise they were there until the light changed around him, a bright blaze on the snow that blinded him; he raised his hand to shield his eyes. The buckles and decals on his coat were glowing, and he heard someone call out to him in Miran before he lowered his hands and raised his head. 

Three horn blasts next to him shocked him, making him jump. _Friends_, it meant, if they were using the same code as Jehan. His heart didn't slow. The horn might be the same, but it was Miran archers eyeing him, strings still on their bows, Miran soldiers standing in a loose half circle. He didn't know what to do. 

The sound of metal behind him. He turned. The Mirans from the camp were there, their armour not shining but dull with blood and snow, torches raised high, some still dotted along the valley. That was who had been chasing them, not Kur. 

Someone called out to him in Miran. He raised his head and they stopped; a low murmur spread as they saw his scars, his face, his mismatched coat. Someone swung down from the archer's stand and came over, boots heavy in the snow, unstringing his bow. His back was to the light; all Yaniv could see was the suggestion of pale eyes and dark hair. It could be any Miran, except for the captain's insignia around his neck. Someone else brought a torch closer, and Yaniv could see the planes of the Miran’s face, a long, straight nose and serious mouth. 

"Jehan?" he said, accent thicker than Rhahat's. He leaned on his bow, waiting. Yaniv was waiting too, turning to Rhahat, who wasn't there. Yaniv blinked, suddenly stupid. He could feel the cuff around his wrist — Rhahat couldn't be _gone_. 

He looked down. Rhahat was kneeling in the snow, hands behind his back, and there was _nothing _on the link, even when Yaniv reached out along it. It wasn't closed, there was just nothing where Rhahat's mind should be. He didn't answer the Miran's question; he didn't even look up. 

"Yes," Yaniv said, slowly, turning back. "I'm, ah, an officer cadet from the Jehan army."

"Your coat says captain from the Miran army," the Miran said, and his tone was serious enough that Yaniv felt he, too, should be bowing his head. He straightened instead, and kept looking the Miran in the eye. He wasn't Yaniv's captain. 

"I took it from a dead man," he said. 

"Hm," the captain said. "Did you take that from a dead man, too?" He raised his chin in Rhahat's direction, though his eyes didn't follow the gesture.

"That's — that's Rhahat," Yaniv said, stupidly. 

"Is it?" the captain said. He turned and barked out a few orders in Miran. The only word Yaniv understood was _Jehan_, but the tone was commanding. He wound the chain up in his fingers, but Rhahat didn't pull back or respond at all. 

"We — he has a message for your commander," Yaniv said, and realised he would have to get the letter from Rhahat's cloak, if he wasn't inclined to speak. It was a moment of clumsy fumbling. He first went for the wrong pocket, but then found the letter in the second, Rhahat so still and silent that Yaniv wasn't even sure if he was breathing. 

Yaniv's hand closed around the letter and brought it out. It wasn't exactly presentable, crumpled and a little damp, still smudged with blood. But the seal was mostly intact, and that was all the captain looked at, reaching out not to take the letter, but to run his fingers over the wax, apparently finding something that verified its integrity. Then he moved away. "Don't you want to read it?" Yaniv said.

"It's for Commander Corentin, as you say. I wish you the best of luck delivering it," the captain said. "Though who _you _are requires more explanation."

"Officer Cadet Yaniv Alić, infantry, Jehan army," Yaniv said.

"That's meaningless to me," the captain said, leaning back on his bow. "Most things you Jehan say are." 

"He speaks truth." A woman was stepping out of the tent, coming shoulder to shoulder with the Miran captain. Her face was shadowed, but Yaniv only needed the sound of her voice to recognise that she was Jehan. 

When she stepped further forward, Yaniv let his breath hiss through his teeth. She was wearing a veil — a mask of sorts, covering the lower half of her face. He strained in the low light, seeing the shadows of scars behind the fabric, but unable to tell what a single one of them was. Not her name, not where she was from — nothing. It set his teeth on edge. He shifted his weight, moving slightly closer to Rhahat. 

The woman had dark curled hair drawn away from her face and a nose that had been broken many times. She spent a moment regarding him, reading his scars. He jutted his chin out, displaying them proudly. The moment of relief he had felt from hearing a Jehan voice had evaporated. 

"You know him?" the captain said. 

"No," the woman replied, and turned back to Yaniv. "I'm Captain Andela. I can see he's telling the truth, Mazar, so unstring your bows."

"I'll never understand you people," Captain Mazar said, and made a signal to the bowmen, who relaxed as one. "Take him to the baths. If you're granted the honour of seeing our commander, you'll be in a fit state to do it."

Yaniv stiffened, narrowed his eyes. 

"It's not an insult," Andela said, too quickly. "They make everyone do it before — negotiations." 

"I don't have anything to negotiate," Yaniv said. "Just a delivery." Andela narrowed her eyes. "Sir," Yaniv guessed, tongue clumsy in his mouth. He'd been with Rhahat too long. But he didn't want to take a bath in a Miran camp. He wasn't fond of the idea of being naked at the end of a blade. 

Besides, Andela was too comfortable here. No Jehan should be making excuses for Miran impropriety. The Mirans didn't know what a Jehan hiding her face meant, but Yaniv did. Oathbreaker. Murderer. Traitor. One of those lay behind that veil. 

"I'll take him," Andela said. 

"No," Mazar said. "One of my men will." He made another one of those imperceptible signals and a man stepped forward, indicating to Yaniv a shadowed path towards the tents. He glanced towards Andela, who said nothing. 

There was nothing to do but follow the soldier down the path. He expected Rhahat to remain on the ground — had he hit his head? — but instead he rose with a fluid motion as soon as the chain began to draw away, and stayed at that distance behind Yaniv until the soldier led them to a dim tent. Yaniv kept his hand on his sword, earning a wary sneer from the Miran as he lifted the tent flap. 

Yaniv had to duck his head to get inside. There was a large bathing tub, steaming with fresh water. He could see the coals underneath, and reached out to warm his frozen hands, rubbing them together to capture some warmth. The Miran was still outside, casting a blocky silhouette on the wall of the tent. Yaniv eyed him. That was what this was — an excuse for the Mirans to talk, for the soldier to listen in on them. 

He turned. Rhahat was kneeling again, a posture that looked practiced. Yaniv had never seen him kneel like that before, with his hands facing one another on his thighs and his back straight, head down. 

"Rhahat," he hissed, ducking down. "Stop it." 

There was no response from Rhahat, either on the link or any movement. Yaniv turned until their eyes met, but they were curiously still and empty. _Like being chained to a corpse_, he thought, and shuddered. Had something happened through the link? "It's just you and me," he said, but even that plea had no impact. He could feel no pain from him. Nothing. 

Yaniv stood, and made his way to the bath. He tested it with his hand and found it perfectly hot, just on the edge of searing, but that was because his hands were still almost frozen. He considered just wetting his hair and telling the Mirans he had bathed, but the allure of hot water was too strong. He stripped quickly and slid in. It felt nothing like the ice cold pond water. The heat of it immediately overwhelmed him; he hissed as it brought to life all the bruises over his body that Rhahat hadn't managed to find, a deep, throbbing pain that overcame him all at once. There was no soap floating in the water, and so he splashed around for a few moments, not feeling much cleaner at all. 

Gentle hands touched his shoulders. He jumped, slopping water over the edge of the bath. It was Rhahat, standing behind him. There was a little basket on the edge of the bath now, and Rhahat was rubbing his shoulders with a wet, scented cloth that gave a gentle, scrubbing pressure. Rhahat didn't speak, moving the cloth down Yaniv's arms, his hands, between his fingers, his neck and chest. 

He was half hard by the time Rhahat's hands dipped beneath the water, but it felt wrong, to have Rhahat's soft hands moving across his ribs, his hips. It wasn't how he wanted them. He pulled away at the last moment, the back of Rhahat's fingers skimming over his cock. Yaniv gasped, just from that small contact, and whipped his head around, but Rhahat was still the same blank-eyed figure. He washed Yaniv's hair instead, his fingers deft at massaging and rinsing, the intimacy of it making Yaniv shift his weight uncomfortably until it was done. 

He pulled himself out of the bath, water sheeting from his body, steaming in the night air. He felt oddly uncomfortable being naked in front of Rhahat — no, in front of this poor imitation of Rhahat, without a cutting word or a sly smile. 

Rhahat washed in the same water until he was clean and redressed, undressing revealing dark bruises on his hip and side that Yaniv eyed with sympathy. But he still showed no pain. Yaniv dressed, but he left the Miran coat behind. It was warm and had served him well, but even though his Jehan coat was torn and almost threadbare, he felt more himself with the right colours and emblems on his shoulders. 

Yaniv thought for one last moment that he should try to reach through to Rhahat, but there was nothing. He opened his end of the link, drawing back the screen until it was completely unfiltered, his confusion and consternation pouring down. Nothing. 

"Fine," he hissed. "If you're too much of a coward to face your own people, I'll do it alone." He regretted the words almost immediately; he was trying to provoke a reaction from Rhahat, but he had gone too far. If Rhahat heard the words, he didn't show it, his expression still blank, eyes like a mirror. Yaniv didn't know what to say, only able to send a weak apology through the link.

He pushed out of the tent, startling the Miran soldier, who gave him a long, considering look and then leaned over to spit on the frozen ground. Yaniv missed the bath tent almost immediately, wishing for the security of the closed walls, the dim lights. 

The soldier led him through the camp, and he forced himself to hold his head high, avoiding the looks from the Miran soldiers. It was as neat a camp as Mirans tended to have, all straight lines and edges, each person's belongings laid out in careful order, men and women clustered around campfires. There was nothing unusual about this camp, even compared to the combined camp they had had at the border, but there _was _something different. Mirans never seemed to take the war seriously, always acting the fool. Here, they were different, grim-faced and silent — until Yaniv and Rhahat passed, a susurration growing in their wake.

It took him a moment to realise none of their gazes were landing on him, but Rhahat. Yaniv wound the chain around his hand, ready to bring Rhahat close if any of them approached. The soldier was dragging his feet, letting everyone get a good view of the Jehan and Miran. Something to talk about later over dinner. Maybe they were thinking of marking Rhahat's face as a traitor.

Snow was beginning to fall again, but it was light, and didn't disrupt the excited murmur going through the camp. Yaniv shored himself up, looking for Jehan faces among the crowd, but there were none, even in the deepest shadows. 

The commander's tent was obvious even before they turned towards it — the most grandiose, lit by flaming braziers. The material of it was a bright white, stitched with gold in Miran emblems and sigils. Typical overcraftsmanship, and a terrible thing to bring to a battlefield, Yaniv thought. He didn't allow himself to consider the hours of labour that would have gone into its construction, hours that could have been spent making armour or swords. 

They stopped outside it and the soldier called out in Miran. The flap opened and Captain Mazar stepped out, and beckoned them inside. Yaniv followed, biting his tongue almost to blood to keep sharp words inside, his damp hair curling at his neck. 

"Clean?" Mazar said, and Yaniv opened his mouth, before he realised the question wasn't directed to him. 

"As any Jehan can be," the soldier replied, and then vanished as Mazar narrowed his eyes at him. Yaniv didn't appreciate the feigned distaste; he was certain Mazar was thinking the same thing. 

He stepped into the tent's antechamber, and when Mazar closed the flap behind him, he was surprised how much sound the thick fabric kept out. Andela was there too, veil still covering her scars. The light from the brazier danced on the fabric, creating shadows and phantom scars, and dispelling them. Yaniv wondered what they had been talking about until he had come in, because the weight of that conversation still hung in the air.

Mazar leaned back on the heavy wood desk in the antechamber, covered in papers scratched in Miran script — though monochrome in a way he had never seen before — and a map of all three countries that had tactical drawings all over it. Mazar noticed his gaze and drew another piece of paper over it before meeting Yaniv's eyes again. 

"I have just one question for you," Mazar said, eyes still slightly narrowed. 

"You're not my captain," Yaniv said. 

"Answer him," Andela said, from behind.

"Neither are you," Yaniv said. "I won't be ordered around by a covered face."

Mazar sighed a long-suffering sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Can't even ask a simple question," he said, seemingly to the air. 

"If you knew your history, you'd know why," Yaniv said. 

Mazar looked up at him again — no, past him, to Rhahat who was standing, head bowed. He asked his question in Miran, the glassy syllables sliding past Yaniv's ears. This time he didn't understand a single one, and nor, seemingly, did Rhahat, because he didn't respond to the question at all, not a flutter of an eyelid or a quirk of the lips. 

"You ask," Mazar said. "You ask what happened to Eday."

"I don't know what that is," Yaniv said, through his teeth.

"_Who_."

"I don't know _who _that is," he said, sick and tired of being addressed as an afterthought, and expected to understand everything. 

"He was that," Mazar said, pointing at the cuff on Yaniv's wrist. "Did you kill him? Did it — " _Rhahat_ " — do it?"

"I don't know," Yaniv said.

"A body shows up with his hand cut off, throat cut, his sword still in his scabbard, I start to think," Mazar said. "If you won't tell me, one of you will answer to Commander Corentin. Or — " he flicked his eyes down to Rhahat — "when its sister arrives." 

Yaniv didn't know what to make of that comment, and he didn't much care. "I don't know anything about that," he said, but it was clear Mazar didn't believe him. "I have one question of my own."

"You're not my captain," Mazar said, with the barest hint of angry humour, just enough that Yaniv knew he was furious. He bristled with authority, but Yaniv was tired enough, hungry enough, and fed up enough with Mirans that it didn't work on him. 

"Why are you here?" 

The question was simple enough, but it hung in the air. Mazar's expression didn't change, except his eyes flicked over Yaniv's shoulders to meet Andela's eyes; he felt their gazes lock without needing to turn. Mazar's expression said _you shouldn't have asked that_, but Yaniv was beyond caring. How could he not ask? Some of Rhahat's flippancy had infected him. "I mean, there's only one Jehan here — well, what passes for one. The treaty states any Miran camps have to be accompanied by Jehan command."

"Watch your mouth," Mazar said, more mildly than Yaniv deserved.

"What about camps on Miran soil?" Andela said, from behind. Yaniv half-turned, unwilling to show Mazar his back when he was so close.

"What?"

"What does the treaty say about camps on Miran soil?" she said again, meeting his eyes. There wasn't a trace of fear in them, which made Yaniv's blood boil. She should be afraid of him — should be afraid of him seeing what was behind the veil. Her lack of fear unsettled him. 

"It doesn't — "

"Enough," Mazar said. He pushed himself off the desk and stepped in front of Yaniv, pointing at his sword and making a beckoning gesture. Yaniv undid his sword belt and handed it over, feeling bereft just from the lack of weight on his hip. Mazar made a mocking bow and swept open the inner tent flap, and Yaniv took a trepidatious step inside. Rhahat followed, though Mazar let the flap fall and hit him on the back, making him stumble just a little. 

Inside the tent was even dimmer, with a hazy, sweet smell in the air. There were two chairs, a rug that Yaniv's heavy boots looked out of place on, and another heavy desk, printed in gold with the same sigil as the wax seal on the letter in his pocket. But the desk was empty. Yaniv sat in one of the chairs, and Rhahat knelt next to him on a cushion that had been laid on the floor. Someone had put that there deliberately. 

Yaniv swallowed, slowly. He wasn't used to this — deference. It put his teeth on edge to have Rhahat sitting — no, _cowering_ by his side. That wasn't the Rhahat he knew, with his straight-backed pride and fire in his eyes. That Rhahat would never avoid Yaniv's gaze. That Rhahat would never _serve_ Yaniv. He shivered with a sudden chill. 

They were making him wait, and he knew it, so he settled on the chair, stretching out. It had been so long since he had had to sit and wait for anything that it was only a few minutes until he was bouncing his leg, the chain bouncing too, peering into the dimmer corners of the tent. Still nothing happened beyond the candles beginning to spill their wax down into their holders. The waiting was intolerable — especially with Rhahat so still and silent. He ran his fingers over the edges of the letter, rubbed his thumb around the circumference of the wax seal, debating what would happen if he just threw it onto the desk and left. 

There was something beyond the letter in his pocket, something pushed deep enough that he had to scratch it out with his nails. It was one of Rhahat's earrings, cold and forgotten in the bottom of his coat. He could see on Rhahat's ear where it had been ripped free. Yaniv would give a thousand gold earrings to have Rhahat with him — _properly_ with him — now.

The tent flap swept open and a tall man came in, imposing, with white-blond hair that gleamed in the candlelight. Yaniv couldn't help curling his lip. The man looked like he had never spent a day on the battlefield, scrabbling in the mud to keep a hold on his life. He was dressed in a Miran commander's robes, the same white as the tent walls, without even a speck of mud or dirt on them. Yaniv wondered how they managed it — it made it very difficult for him to believe there was no more Miran magic. The commander sat at his desk, and only then did he look up at them and say something in Miran, the syllables making Yaniv want to pull his hair out. 

"I don't speak Miran," he said, loudly, and the commander drew in a long breath. 

"I said," he said, in Jehan, "that its hair is going to take a long time to grow back." He indicated Rhahat with a dismissive wave.

"I — " Yaniv shut his mouth on the syllable._ That_ was what the commander wanted to talk about? These people were all mad. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," the commander said. "It matters." He looked down at the papers on his desk.

"I have a letter that Rhahat says — "

"You've been letting it speak?" 

"You mean 'him'," Yaniv said, not thinking for a second about the consequences of correcting the commander's grammar. 

"You mean, 'sir'," the commander said. "When addressing me."

"I'm not part of your army," Yaniv said, "as I have to keep reminding people."

"One look at you is reminder enough," the commander said. "What happened to Commander Eday?"

"I already told Mazar I don't know who that is," Yaniv said. 

"Captain Mazar," the commander said. "Eday's body was found in his tent, missing his left hand. So unless he cut it off himself to escape that chain, I find it difficult to believe that I don't know what happened. Not to mention that you've been letting — him talk to you. Don't you know that can only poison the mind?"

"I — "

"Don't interrupt when I'm speaking," the commander said, his voice slicing out towards Yaniv, who fumed silently, knowing Corentin was trying to rile him but unable to stop himself from rising to the bait. This was how all Mirans thought they could speak to him — as if he was nothing, as if all of Jehan were just _nothing_. "I heard they used to let him speak. Did you wonder about the teeth?"

"I didn't ask," Yaniv said. 

"So you do have some notion of courtesy." 

"The letter — " 

"I wondered if you did."

"I thought it was some Miran fashion statement," Yaniv snapped. "The information I have — "

"It's an old tradition." He reached over — there was some contraption of metal on his desk that Yaniv's eyes had not been drawn to before. It didn't look like anything he recognised, not a weapon, but something Miran, shining silver where iron would have done as well. "Not one a Jehan would understand, but in Mira we understand the nature of men."

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Yaniv said, and pulled the letter from his pocket. Commander Corentin gave it a cursory look, returning his gaze to Rhahat. 

"I am next in line, you know," he said. "A boy like you letting him run wild will only made the transition sweeter." He stood, then, and Yaniv's hand fell to where his sword should be, and found nothing, his fingers grasping. The commander noticed, and scoffed. 

What would Rhahat tell him to do? This was something Miran that he couldn't possibly understand. He only needed to endure it to deliver the letter, let the Miran commander proselytise as much as he wished, and then they could leave, return home. He gritted his teeth and allowed the commander to approach — as much as he could be said to allow it, which made his hackles rise all the more. 

Commander Corentin approached, a man who carried weight and power in every step, affecting a gravitas that Yaniv couldn't stand. Yaniv forced himself not to roll his eyes. He'd taken it to the brink of what was acceptable, mostly because he knew that it would be dismissed as uncivilised because it came from the mouth of a Jehan. But there was nothing Yaniv could do to stop his approach. He couldn't risk the treaty. 

Corentin drew close enough to drop the metal in Rhahat's lap before retreating behind his desk, wiping his hands on his robe. Rhahat didn't raise his head, his eyes still half-shuttered, no emotion in his face. But he pulled the metal over the top of his head and slipped the bar into his mouth. His teeth could not close around it; his mouth was wedged open by the bit, sharp teeth on full display.

Yaniv trembled with fury. "What is that?" he said, pointing wildly. "Why — what _is it_?" 

"That's the wrong question," Corentin said. "The teeth are a reminder to keep that on." He made a little snapping gesture with his hand. Yaniv's hands balled into fists, fighting the urge to reach out and rip the thing off Rhahat's head. "It's based on past incidents," Corentin continued, ignoring the fact that Yaniv was barely listening, "so it's a mutual understanding."

"I doubt that," Yaniv said. It came out as a low growl that he could not control, crumpling the letter before realising what he was doing. 

"How noble," Corentin said. "But you have to admit it would have been useful while fucking him."

"What — _I didn't _— " 

"Why else would you be so protective? It's not like it has anything to offer beyond ass or mouth," Corentin said. "I'll take that letter now." He held out his hand and Yaniv ignored the outstretched palm, flinging the letter towards the desk, where it skidded across the polished surface. Corentin didn't react; he just picked it up.

Yaniv closed his hand on the chain and found it cold, squeezing it so tight that it felt like it was cutting into his flesh. He wished he had his sword, his knife, anything to leap across the table and cleave this man's head from his shoulders, but even he wouldn't risk the treaty. He bit his tongue instead, the taste of blood flooding into his mouth. He was being toyed with and reacting in exactly the way he was expected to. 

"It's something about a traitor to the treaty," Yaniv said. "Both Jehan and Mira would be affected if — "

Corentin opened the letter, scanning it quickly, and then began to laugh, a deep bass laugh that made Yaniv wince. He gripped harder on the chain, the cold chill of it sinking deep into his bones, like gripping ice. 

"That's not what it says," Corentin said, and folded the letter, setting it aside. "All it says is what I've said to you — that in the event of Eday's death, that passes to me." He pointed at Rhahat.

"No, that's not — " Yaniv's stomach flipped, his body plunging down into ice water. "That's not what it says." 

"I've had enough," Corentin said, voice going hard. "I've allowed you to disrespect me on the promise of information, but if you have none — "

"There's a traitor — "

"If there's a traitor in this room, he's by your side," Corentin said. "Every word that passes his lips is a lie. You're the last to find this out." He stood, sweeping back around the desk again, grabbing at the back of Rhahat's head, twisting his hand in hair and metal alike and pulling it back, so Rhahat’s throat was bared and his eyes were tilted up, still shuttered. "It's like a balm, or a bandage," he said. "You use it. You don't talk to it." 

Yaniv struggled to his feet. He wanted his sword. He wanted _answers_. Knife — his knife wasn't in his pocket. Rhahat had it, still wet with Yaniv's blood, and it would be no use with him. Yaniv’s hand fell to his side anyway, but Corentin wasn't paying the slightest attention to him, his gaze fixed upon Rhahat, hand still fisted at the back of his head. 

"All that way, just to bring himself to me," he said, reaching out with his other hand to brush at Rhahat's cheek, rearranging his hair where it curled around his ear. Rhahat's head was heavy on his neck, caged with heavy metal and Corentin's hand. It made bile rise in Yaniv's throat to watch. 

"Leave him be," he said, before he could stop himself.

"Your part in this is done," Corentin said, turning on Yaniv in a wheel of white fabric — a flash of silver blade. Yaniv jumped to his feet. 

He was too slow, too tired to avoid the blade, the ringing of it from its sheath the final warning before it plunged into his stomach, cold pain and fear sliding into him, blood hot against his hands where they clutched at the blade, feeling it slide back in a sickening rush. He grasped at the sword, unthinking. It sliced into his hands as he stumbled to the ground, blood dripping — he was at one on the floor with Rhahat for a moment, before the pain drove him further down, his hands scrabbling on the floor, trying to find purchase. Drops of his blood had landed on the foot of Corentin's robe, and it was all he had left to sustain himself, reaching out to grasp a handful of fabric, leaving smears of his blood behind as Corentin wrenched it away, stomping hard on Yaniv's hand. 

He groaned, still trying to pull himself forward, unsure what he was trying to do. The weight of death was pinning him down to the ground. He could smell his own blood, the strange scent of smoke on the air, his sweat. When he had been dying in Kur, he had wished to be at home, but this felt even less like Jehan. 

Yaniv reached out, his fingertips brushing Rhahat's knee. Yaniv looked up at him, the strain in his body matched by the tremble he could feel in Rhahat, the first sign of life. He grasped for Rhahat's hand, thinking of dragging it down to the wound, but he couldn't manage it, the pain in his stomach radiating all through his body, pouring down the bond into the empty vessel of Rhahat. 

"Please," he whispered. 

Corentin responded with something; Yaniv couldn't understand his words — couldn't even tell what language he was speaking. Something was ringing in his ears, an overwhelming sound that filled his entire head. His thoughts were slow, but sharp, scraping through his mind. Rhahat's body trembled under his hand. 

Yaniv looked up, forcing his darkening vision upwards. Corentin leaned down so his face was level with Rhahat and turned his head one way, then the other, like a farmer inspecting a horse. Yaniv felt Rhahat's weight shift, almost imperceptibly. Corentin leaned forward, his thumb moving to touch Rhahat's lip, leaning forward just enough that Yaniv thought he might kiss him, but he was speaking again.

Rhahat moved. Yaniv felt it. There was something silver in his hand. Yaniv's knife. It flashed out. 

Rhahat cut Corentin's throat, dark blood spilling across the white robe. His sword clattered to the ground from his hand. He choked, blood spilling from his lips, splattering across Rhahat's face. Rhahat didn't blink. He was clutching the knife hard enough that the end of the blade caught his own hand, his palm. 

Blood ran in rivulets down the white fabric of Corentin's robe, mingling with Yaniv's, until it was all he could smell. It was in his mouth and nose, between his teeth and in his lips. Corentin choked and seized on the ground beside him. Yaniv bared his teeth and dragged himself towards Rhahat, gripping at him. 

"Help," he tried to say, but it came out in a bubble of blood. Yaniv reached for Rhahat's hand, wet with blood, and dragged it down towards his abdomen. Rhahat was still silent, emotionless, and he fell half on top of Yaniv, the painful pressure making him gasp. He pulled Rhahat's hand down to the wound and pressed it in, deep, slipping in his blood and worse, praying the familiar motion would make Rhahat remember, would make him heal. 

Nothing. Rhahat's hand was cold, nerveless, the icy chain binding his wrist cutting into the wound. He could feel Rhahat's heart beating, slow and steady. Yaniv didn't know what to do. Every second was stretching between the blink of his eyes, the squeeze of his heart hot and painful. Even his native tongue was escaping his mind now, and Miran was even further away. The few words he knew slipped beyond his grasp until he choked through them. "_Iradaá_," he gasped, and hoped it was loud enough for Rhahat to hear him. "_Iradaá_." _Heal. _Nothing happened. 

Yaniv closed his eyes and sighed, a deep breath that seemed unending, air rushing out of his body, cold creeping into his limbs. He surrendered to it, until it changed to terrible pain that made him cry out, muffled, into the ground. 

The pain mounted, spiking through his whole body, in terrible waves. It was hot, building in his stomach — it was Rhahat's healing heat, the reverse of the sword pushing into his body, the sharp cuts slicing backwards as the wound closed, leaving him gasping on the floor, reaching down and seizing Rhahat's hand, finding nothing but intact skin underneath, scrabbling against congealing blood. 

He stood on the legs of a newborn, shaking so badly underneath him that he had to brace himself on the desk, leaving a dark handprint on the Miran wood. He glanced at the desk, but he could barely focus his eyes on the Miran characters and maps, let alone read them. Rhahat stood, too, but only as a reaction to Yaniv moving away. 

Yaniv picked up Corentin's sword, found the scabbard behind the desk, and sheathed it after wiping it clean on his robes. Rhahat's hand needed coaxing open around Yaniv's knife, but eventually he was able to, binding Rhahat’s hand with a clean handkerchief found on the desk. Rhahat's hands were shaking, but he was still unresponsive, his swaying on his feet the only sign of life. 

The letter was still on the table. Yaniv picked it up and looked at it, considering it, and then threw it in the brazier by Corentin's desk, the wax hissing against the hot metal. A moment of consideration, leaning on Corentin's sword, and then he kicked the brazier over, hot coals rolling out onto the carpet, cherry red in the dim light. 

"Come on," he said, voice barely a hoarse whisper, and grasped not for the chain but for Rhahat's hand, pulling him towards the back of the tent, the door to Corentin's personal chambers and then to the outside, where the wind was a melodious whistle against his face, the sky still high and clear above them. The tent was at the back of the camp, protected from the wind by a copse of trees that had grown together, intertwined branches shielding it from view. 

"Come on," he said again, his words whipped away by the wind, squeezing Rhahat's hand and feeling him fall into step behind him. Sharp smoke was building behind them as they made their way to the back of the cloven valley, where the ridges rose high around them and it ended with a narrow point. He looked back two or three times, and each time the fire had grown and grown until he could hear the crackle of it and shouts. His heart thumped, hard and heavy, in time with the leap of the flames. Rhahat didn't look. 

Yaniv realised Rhahat was still wearing the cage around his face and grabbed at it too hard at first, unable to find the catch, his fingers slick with sweat. It took two or three tries before he could figure out how it worked, between the dim moonlight and the searing blaze; he turned his back on it to preserve his vision. There, finally, was the latch. He wrenched it open, pulling it free of Rhahat's mouth as gently as his trembling hands allowed, and threw it into the whirling night. 

*

Yaniv knew where he was. The snow had lessened as they worked their way down from the valley, towards the green, lusher parts of Jehan, where the snow fell on still-blooming flowers at the start of spring. Now, though, it was crystalline, the river returning as a wide lake. 

He had only been here once before, a very long time ago, when they had journeyed for a week to see the king's progress. He had been only a boy, wrapped in furs at the back of the wagon. Yaniv's family had been chosen because of his father's skill in spirits and wines, their village’s gift to the king. 

It looked different now, both because of the snow and night, and also because they were approaching from the other direction, making even the most familiar shapes look foreign. There were shelters, here and there, that he remembered being built out of the different woods of Jehan, strung with linen canopies that gleamed white in the sun. But it was empty now, not ringing with voices or any sound of life. 

There were caves carved into the shelf of rock around the lake. Not the same as the nature-hewn kind that they had sheltered in before, but man-made. The walls were smooth and niched with places for families to store their belongings. He touched them and found them dull with age, waiting for the next king's progress to disturb the natural beauty of the lake. 

If there ever was one. Maybe the Miran parliament would meet here, form a quorum among the rocks and reeds without ever considering what had come before. 

He leaned against the wall and tried to still his breathing. Rhahat knelt behind him, and Yaniv winced at the idea of Rhahat pressing his knees into the harsh rock of the floor. "Stop," he said, but there was no reaction. 

He crouched in front of Rhahat and tried to wipe at the blood on his face. It was drying, and couldn't be shifted. Rhahat looked the same as ever, except for the blood and the fact that his eyes were so nearly closed, fluttering with involuntary weariness. 

"You lied to me," Yaniv said, gripping at Rhahat's hands, holding one in two of his own. It was cold. He couldn't help chafing at it, despite the fact that anger was swelling in the back of his mouth. "You betrayed me." His words were so slight he felt they were being taken by the outside wind. "Everything you've ever said to me was a lie."

His harsh words didn't provoke Rhahat. He raised Rhahat's hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to the back of it, the tips of the fingers, and dragged it up to his cheek, along the corona scar under his eye. "This is the name of my village." Further. "This is my lineage — the names of my parents." Here, further, "the stars of my birth," and further still, choking on his breath with its banality, "I won a carving competition." 

He drew Rhahat's hand to his other cheek, which was wet with tears. They were hot with anger, and he was trembling with it, wishing Rhahat was _here_, truly here so he could force that anger out of his body. This wasn't Rhahat, this was an empty thing, and his anger was stoppered and useless.

He dragged Rhahat's hand over his right cheek, centering his fingertips on the lattice of scars there. He huffed in a breath. "When I was a child, a friend of mine and I went into the woods unbidden. We played for hours, until we were deep in the forest and it was dark — the trees pressed so close together they blocked out the sky. We were — " he fought for the right words, cursing his lack of storyteller's gift — "there was a mother bear — we stumbled into her cubs and we had to run. My friend was braver than I and sent me on ahead. I was the coward, and left him, ran until I found the lanterns of our searching parents. They never found him — I took his name here to revere his memory." Yaniv breathed again, steady. "I — you were right. I am a coward."

Rhahat snatched his hand away. Yaniv looked up. He saw not Rhahat's face, but that of a stranger — no, his own, his own face, but it was a stranger's, cheeks cut with disturbing scars, a blade of a nose and sharp, serious mouth, all unfamiliar. He saw his own mouth form the first sound of _what _and then he was back looking through his own eyes. 

Rhahat shouted something in Miran and flew at him in a whirl of fists and feet, bowling him backwards. Yaniv hit his head. His ears rang. Rhahat was shouting in Miran — he couldn't understand anything except _Jehan, Jehan_, his fists pounding down. Yaniv shielded his face from the blows, still catching them on his cheek, his chest. They were never ending, Rhahat's feet banging into his hips, shouting in Miran. He shoved back at Rhahat, who fell, but the chain pulled them back together, knocking their heads together. Yaniv's head spun. He didn't want to hit back, but Rhahat was furious, not pulling his punches. 

The bond opened up with a terrible roar that dropped the bottom out of his stomach, all of Rhahat pouring past him in a deluge of pain and anger that knocked Yaniv's breath out of his chest. He could feel the blaze of the scar on Rhahat's wrist like a hot vice around his arm. 

He fought back; it wasn't possible to stop himself with that much rage burning into his blood. Touching Rhahat was like reaching into a fire, his skin wild with heat, his face red with exertion. Yaniv tried to reach into the bond, but it was a river of molten lava, scorching his mind. 

The ring of his sword sliding free startled him into stillness. It was impossible to see in the dark but he could feel it, cold and hard against his neck. He couldn't tell if it was blade or scabbard for a moment, crushing against his throat. Yaniv grabbed at it, pushing back with superior strength. He wouldn't be killed twice with the same sword. 

Rhahat's hand slipped, but he redoubled his strength, trying to force it back down towards Yaniv's neck. Light was blooming from the chain, revealing the cave in strange, scattered shadows. The sword was half out of its sheath, still dark with Yaniv's lifeblood, the blade underneath trying to shine. 

"Rhahat — " 

His choked-out word took valuable attention away from the struggle. Rhahat leaned down with his whole weight, the crossguard of the sword banging against the soft flesh of Yaniv's neck. He could see Rhahat above him, his gritted-open mouth wet with his own blood. The crossguard scraped along the rock. Yaniv pushed hard, the sword slipping out of Rhahat's hands and clattering away towards the wall of the cave. 

Rhahat wrapped his hand around Yaniv's neck and bore down with all his weight, the familiar crushing pressure of his hands around Yaniv’s neck making Yaniv flush with terrified heat, hands stuck in the air like Rhahat had told him not to move, the command resonating. He saw himself again from Rhahat's perspective, just a flash, his face familiar and unfamiliar all at once, the dark swallowing half his features and returning them as pieces, a wild, haggard man. 

Breathing drew no air into his lungs. He was gasping — that strange sound of gasping that was echoing off the walls was him — his vision sparking in the darkness. Mind and body at war — waves of warmth were flooding over him, his legs feeling pleasantly heavy, thighs tight with strain. But survival took over and he rushed upwards as if through ice water, breaking Rhahat's grip; he fell backwards with a yell. 

Yaniv coughed and choked on his own first breath, reaching out into the darkness to try and catch at Rhahat's shoulder, his ankle. The scrape of metal told him Rhahat had found the sword again, so he grabbed at his leg and pulled him back with all his might. Rhahat yelped like a wounded dog and crashed down on Yaniv again, his hip colliding with Yaniv's side, his thigh sliding over Yaniv's hard cock. He choked out a moan, biting down on his own tongue, but it was too late.

Rhahat went still above him, and the bond twisted once more. Yaniv couldn't see anything in the darkness, grasping out for nothing, unable to find Rhahat. The bond was still flowing through him, but the anger and confusion was giving way to something else, a deep twist of hate and cruelty that made him gasp. This was Mira — what he had always known Mira was like, but he hadn't expected to feel it from Rhahat, whose skin was raised with marks born from Miran cruelty. 

"So this is what Jehan craves," Rhahat said, his voice echoing back and forth between Yaniv's ears. It was Miran and not Miran — he was hearing Rhahat's speech and understanding it through the bond, hearing the words twice. "I didn't realise bringing Jehan under Mira's hand was so literal." He shifted his weight down onto Yaniv's cock, pinning him there with his thigh, pain and arousal mixing. 

Yaniv gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to shift up into that pressure. This wasn't Rhahat — it was some twisted version of Rhahat, more Miran than man. His hand flashed out and gripped Yaniv's neck, grinding his head back across the ground, leaning close until Yaniv could see the gleam of light in his eyes. His mouth and chin were still dark with blood. 

"Rhahat — " 

"That's not my name," he said, and his fingers dug so deep into the sides of Yaniv's neck that Yaniv was afraid his flesh would break. He wasn't sure if Rhahat would even think of healing him. "That's not a name at all." 

Something cold touched his neck and he jumped, just enough to scratch his neck with the blade of his knife, clutched hard in Rhahat's hand. It was already blotted with Yaniv's blood. The wonder in Rhahat's eyes when he had scratched at Yaniv's side on the mountain seemed very far away. 

He tried not to breathe, or move, the knife warming on the side of his neck. Rhahat pressed it in a little further and Yaniv could feel his flesh parting — no, accepting the knife. Blood welled from the corner of the cut and slowly rolled backwards, just enough for a drop to wet the ground. 

"Rh — _ah _— "

Rhahat was straddling his thigh, pinning him to the ground with nothing but the slight weight of him and the dangerous slide of the knife. The pressure was light; it was a warning rather than an attack. Rhahat's lips parted, all his attention focused down on the scratch on the side of Yaniv’s neck. He drew the knife vertical and scratched down Yaniv's chest, a hot line that drew beads of blood to his skin. How far would this version of Rhahat go? 

Fear was overwhelmed by his arousal. It was nothing like being hit because the pain continued on, a sharp burn that he could not ignore. His cock kicked as Rhahat increased pressure, opening a line down to his stomach. Yaniv could barely look at it, imagining the scar that would be left behind — a mark of possession. He pushed his hips up, but Rhahat ignored him, lifting the knife away from his flesh. He replaced it with the flat of his hand.

"No — "

Yaniv's protests were meaningless, the healing heat starting at his navel and shooting up to his neck. Yaniv groaned, clenching his teeth together, the pain in reverse magnifying his pleasure. His cock was red and painful, a bead of wetness continuously growing at the tip. Rhahat moved the knife away and reached out to grip at the base of Yaniv's cock. Yaniv couldn't stop his hips rolling upwards, but the purpose of Rhahat's grip wasn't stimulation. He squeezed, hard, at the same moment he pushed the knife between Yaniv's ribs.

Yaniv shouted loud enough to bring the entire Kur army down upon them. He was coming — no. Rhahat's hand was squeezing him too hard, preventing him from coming. He couldn't stop moving, moaning, his cock so wet he thought he _had _come. 

Rhahat was looking down at him, eyes a little too wide. The hot knife between his ribs didn't move, a constant slicing ache in his side that shifted every time he did. He couldn't breathe, couldn't blink without the pain increasing, moving, changing. There were lights behind his eyes when he closed them. 

"You took that better than I thought," Rhahat murmured, his fingers stroking at the edges of the wound, tugging at Yaniv's flesh where it shored up against the metal of the knife. "I think you'd take anything I gave you." 

The pressure increased until Yaniv choked on his own spit. Rhahat wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife. 

"Leave it — please — " Yaniv gasped, the fire shooting up his side with each word. Rhahat didn't listen, his cruelty honed by the absence of pain as well as gifting it. He pulled the knife free and sealed his hand over the wound, not letting a drop of blood escape as it healed. Yaniv blinked tears out of his eyes as the pain reversed, leaving him with nothing. 

Rhahat leaned forward and jammed his thumb right up against the bone of Yaniv's jaw, turning his face down into the rock. Still, his thigh kept up the increasing pressure against Yaniv's cock until he had to fight not to moan and cry out, choking on his own breath. The pain was overwhelming, but it crashed up against his arousal, his hips kicking against Rhahat's thigh. 

His body wasn't afraid — it knew what it wanted, and that was the cruelty of Rhahat's hands, the pressure of his body. It burned a fire in his blood, and when Rhahat released his hand he couldn't help but lean up towards him, his mouth open, hoping for something further. He was caught between the two sensations, the threat and wanting to taste the salt of Rhahat's skin, even when he remembered the lie. 

Rhahat pushed back, retreating until he was crouching over Yaniv, the pressure on his cock finally easing. He groaned, unsure if it was in protest or in relief. 

"Are all Jehans like this?" he said. His gaze raked down Yaniv's front, from the sweat on his brow to the flutter of his pulse in his neck. "Are you all so pathetic?" He reached out and tore Yaniv's shirt apart, the thin fabric shredding under his determined hands, raking blunt nails down Yaniv's exposed chest. Yaniv shouted, Rhahat's nail scratching over his nipples, the shock of heat and torment making his hips twist. 

"Do you all fuck as badly as you fight?" He dragged his nails down Yaniv's hips, sending sparks of ugly sensation all through his body, but all it did was make his cock harder, wet and sensitive where it was trapped. "Answer me," Rhahat said, yanking down Yaniv's trousers. 

"Rhahat, please — "

"No," Rhahat said, and he slapped Yaniv's cock, startling a keening noise from deep inside his chest that he had never heard himself make before. Rhahat pinched at the head of his cock and rolled his fingers back and forth, forcing Yaniv to move with the motion to escape greater pain. It didn't matter what Rhahat did, what methods he used to draw forth sensation. Everything made Yaniv's cock harder, his breath faster, his body more attuned to Rhahat's desires. 

He could feel the cruelty in the bond being changed as his cock began to leak onto his stomach under Rhahat's harsh glare. It was tempered by arousal; he could not tell if it was his or Rhahat's. Rhahat's fingers moved away from his cock. 

"Pathetic," he said again, but it was with a considering tone. Both his hands explored Yaniv's body with no regard or thought to his pleasure, a cursory touch of his nipples, which were already hard and sore just from the first touch and the anticipation coiling under his skin. 

"Is this how Jehan men fuck?" Rhahat said. "You just lie there?" He grabbed Yaniv's hair and pulled him to his knees with a deep, commanding strength that Yaniv didn't expect. Rhahat stood, guiding Yaniv to his hip, where Yaniv could feel the overwhelming heat of his body and smell his skin, his open mouth pressing against the fabric of Rhahat's trousers. He remembered, with a sudden shock, the sensation of Rhahat's tongue pressing against the head of his cock, the reminder of razor-sharp teeth behind it. His breath stuttered. 

Rhahat felt what he was thinking. Yaniv could tell by the way his fingers tightened on the back of his head, the sharp inhale of his breath. He looked up, just for a moment, disorientated by how it was Rhahat and not at the same time, the hardness in the eyes and the stony jut of jaw not like Rhahat at all. 

"You want it," he said, and it was not a question. It didn't have to be. Yaniv's mouth was wet with anticipation, his whole body throbbing in time with his heartbeat. "Show me." 

Yaniv opened his mouth, the slide of his tongue overwhelmingly sensual, Rhahat's hand still cupping the back of his head. He didn't know what he was doing, acting only on the want that was consuming him. He wanted Rhahat to slide his cock into his mouth, down his throat like he was a vessel to be filled. He could feel the tension in the tendons in Rhahat's wrist, the band of scar pressing against his cheek, and turned his head to mouth at it, running his lips over the skin. 

Rhahat shivered. Yaniv stole another glance. Every part of Rhahat was thrumming with that same tension: the way his thighs were tight, the way his shirt was folded up to a neat crease at his forearm revealing the tracery of veins under his skin, the way Yaniv could sense the pulse in his laid-bare neck, the flutter of muscle in his jaw. Even if Yaniv couldn't feel his lust, he could see it in his body, the way his teeth were bared over his lips. 

"Say it," Rhahat said. 

Yaniv bent his head in supplication, and Rhahat's hands tightened on the back of his head, curling into his hair and pulling him back from the sanctuary of Rhahat's body. 

"Say what you want."

"I want to — " he cut himself off, his cheeks flushing, and bit at his tongue.

"Coward," Rhahat said, his hand seizing hard on the back of Yaniv's neck, grip bruising. His mouth was haughty with a sneer. "If you can't ask for it, you'll get nothing." 

To say — to want something and say something were two different things, and he had never _said _it before, humiliation burning in his muscles. The words were true, and saying them would make them real, make the hunger he was feeling _real. _

He made himself look up and meet Rhahat's eyes, the thrill of making contact with the barely contained contempt in them making his muscles jump. He licked his lips. His mouth was too wet and his face was flushed too red. "I want to suck your cock."

"Then do it." 

Yaniv reached up, his hands steadier than he felt, and freed Rhahat's cock from his trousers. It was the first time he had seen it so close. It was thick enough to give him pause, to imagine the weight of it in his mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips, bowing his head and swallowing. Clear fluid beaded at the tip and, without thinking, he leaned forward and licked at it, the heat and wetness of it surprising him. Rhahat shuddered and went weak at the knees — he had to brace himself on Yaniv's shoulders. Surely that wasn't enough to disarm him. 

Yaniv slid his tongue over the head, pressed it against the slit. All his senses were overwhelmed by Rhahat's taste, his smell, the feeling of his skin, the way he gasped when Yaniv tongued sensitive parts of his cock, more and more of his weight being balanced on Yaniv's shoulders. He parted his lips and Rhahat's hips kicked forward, sliding along his tongue and into Yaniv's mouth; the weight and heat of it was intoxicating. 

He could no longer think, the bond a frenzy of competing emotions. He had a purpose and that purpose was to hold Rhahat's cock in his mouth, to try and elicit pleasure from him — and there was a surfeit of it. He could tell without even trying to dip into the bond, because Rhahat couldn't hold back his moans, his stuttered breaths and high, panting sounds, each of them pulled forth by some small movement that Yaniv made. 

Finally, finally, he pulled Yaniv's head forward, slow enough to guide his cock down towards the back of his throat, but hard enough that Yaniv couldn't resist, even if he wanted to. The head of Rhahat's cock bumped against the back of his throat; he choked. Rhahat let him suck in a desperate half-breath before pushing back in. Yaniv tried to relax, but his heart was fluttering, hands gripping at Rhahat's hips, unsure if he was trying to push him away or pull him closer — not that it mattered. 

Rhahat had been kind with allowing him that breath. Now there was no kindness in his movements, his cock bluntly pressing at the back of Yaniv's throat, shallow thrusts making spit run down his chin, the noise of his choking loud and harsh. Yaniv forced himself to relax, to open his throat and allow Rhahat to push deeper, until his nose was bumping against the flesh of Rhahat's stomach. 

Yaniv couldn't breathe, but he didn't care. It felt so good. Every motion he made provoked some reaction from Rhahat. He swallowed around the head of Rhahat's cock, rubbed his tongue along the underside in time with Rhahat's thrusts. He was dizzy, but it didn't matter because the pleasure flowing through the bond was magnified by a hundred times. He realised with a jolt that he was close to coming, balls drawn up tight and cock aching for release without being touched, just from reflected pleasure. It could be like this forever, he thought, dreamily, his mind slowing. Rhahat wouldn't even need to touch him. 

Rhahat pulled out, slowly enough that Yaniv could follow the movement forward, but quick enough that he felt empty, bereft. His lips were raw, the corners of his mouth stretched. Rhahat thumbed at them, scraping a blunt nail over his lip. His cock was red and wet. 

Yaniv leaned forward, but Rhahat stopped him. Yaniv looked up. Rhahat looked confused, a little dazed, as if he didn't quite know where he was. It faded as he shook his head slightly, blinking down at Yaniv. 

"You — " he said, and stopped, brows drawing together. "Turn over. Turn around." 

Yaniv did as he was told, kneeling on the edge of Rhahat's cloak on the hard ground. Rhahat pushed him forward until his face was pressed against the ground, leaning on his arms, Rhahat behind him. He could feel the weight of Rhahat's gaze on his ass, his thighs, and it went on for a moment too long. 

Yaniv's knees were sore from the rock but he relished that pain, focusing on it until he felt a light touch on his back that made him jump, Rhahat's fingers running up his spine, then falling away. 

"The things I could do to you if I had — anything," Rhahat said, pressing his thumb deep into the muscle of Yaniv's back and drawing a deep line with his nail. Yaniv groaned, the harsh press into his flesh leaving him with a deep, satisfying ache. "I'd stripe your back until you could smell your own blood." 

Yaniv gasped. He could feel what Rhahat was thinking, feel the lash against his back, the bright sensation fading into a deep bruise, a mark — finally, a mark — that might last forever. He shuddered with phantom sensation, coming back to feel only Rhahat's hand on his back, a wave of disappointment washing over him. 

"I can find a way," Rhahat said, and his hand drifted down to Yaniv's ass, raking his nails down both cheeks suddenly and without warning. Yaniv yelped, flinching forward, and Rhahat followed it up with a sharp, open-palmed smack, and again, over and over. His skin was warm and throbbing and he couldn't _think_, the rhythm interrupting every thought that formed in his mind until he was only able to feel, the hot pain of Rhahat's hard hand striking him over and over, the sound ringing in the air. 

His eyes were watering, but he was pushing back to meet the strikes, Rhahat's hand increasing in force until he was grunting with effort with each smack, Yaniv's ass burning, bruised all the way down to his bones. Rhahat stopped, panting for breath, and Yaniv moaned, his voice cracked with it. Rhahat dragged his nails down his ass again and Yaniv yelled, and he was coming, sobbing with the intensity of it, the muscles of his whole body tightening, his cock jumping as come spurted out and landed on the ground, his stomach cramping with the force of it. 

Rhahat clucked his tongue and reached underneath to grab Yaniv's cock. He jumped as the harsh fingers pressed into sensitive flesh, moving slowly up and down his length. 

"I wasn't done," Rhahat said. "I'm _not_ done." He squeezed Yaniv's cock until he tried to beg, a series of nonsensical sounds dropping from his mouth instead. _Good_, Rhahat had said when Yaniv had pleased him. He couldn't tell if he was pleasing him now. His whole ass ached, even more so when Rhahat released his cock and returned, running his fingers lightly over abused skin. "Have you ever been fucked, Jehan?"

Yaniv had to breathe for a few moments before he was able to speak, old thoughts fluttering in his mind. "No," he said. "You know my name."

"I — " Rhahat paused, and Yaniv felt the bond pause too, a complete cessation of everything that had been pouring across to him. It stuttered, and began to start again, that cold sense of cruelty, not Rhahat's deep satisfaction, but there was something behind it that he could feel — Rhahat, the true Rhahat somewhere within. "I — you — you're thinking of something. Tell me."

Every breath that Yaniv took reignited the pain throbbing in the cheeks of his ass, a wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. He could still feel the scratch of Rhahat's nails burning in opposition to the deep bruises, and he yearned for it. He hated that this was a moment without Rhahat's hands on him, without Rhahat's cock in him, a shiver running down all the muscles in his back at the thought. But his pause was punished by Rhahat reaching underneath and squeezing at the sensitive head of his cock, giving another cruel caress to the soft length. 

"Tell me."

"There — ah — there was a soldier in training — "

"Stop," Rhahat said. "Touch yourself."

"I — I can't." 

Rhahat was kneeling behind him, close enough that Yaniv could feel the warmth of his skin and breath on the abraded skin of his ass, and it made the blood roar in his ears to think about the sharpness of his teeth so close. "But you've been so good," he said, quietly enough that Yaniv had to strain to hear him. "And it'd be so difficult to find a way to punish you." He pinched Yaniv's ass. Yaniv grunted, but his hips kicked forward into the empty air, the tip of his cock growing wet again. "So just be good."

Yaniv lifted one hand, his weight falling down onto the other arm and his knees, three points of ache against the cold stone. It felt colder by virtue of the heat of his skin and the heat of Rhahat, the chain around his wrist burning with it. His cock was tender and sore, but he couldn’t help hissing out a soft breath of pleasure as his hand wrapped around it, his thumb passing over the wet tip. 

Rhahat's order had two parts; he struggled to remember the second. "In training," he said, and gasped out as Rhahat's hands pressed into his ass cheeks again, gently parting them. "In training — there was a soldier in training who would — _ah_!"

Something hot and wet ran over his hole, lapping at the rim and passing over again, a flat but insistent tease. It was Rhahat's _tongue_, his tongue sliding over Yaniv's hole. He couldn't stop the sounds falling from his mouth, breathy moans that he had to stifle by pressing his mouth against his arm. But that wasn't — Rhahat moved away, but Yaniv could feel his reluctance through the bond. 

"He would just look — " Rhahat's tongue resumed and Yaniv's voice jumped an octave. "He would look at me in the bath," he choked out. He'd never told anyone this before, but now that he'd started, he couldn't stop himself from remembering, even though each word he spoke was rewarded by Rhahat's tongue flicking over his hole, making him sob. "It made me — I could feel him looking at me. I let him look. I lingered." 

His hand was still — he had to make it move again, fingers shaky on his oversensitive cock, growing wet enough to slick his palm. The war inside him to keep his secrets was being lost purely by the tip of Rhahat's tongue, wet and insistent. He was beginning to feel wet and open; his thighs trembled with pleasure and effort. 

"Was he Jehan?"

Yaniv's fingers stuttered on his cock. "Miran."

Rhahat began to laugh and Yaniv could _feel_ it, the vibration of his laughter, the shake of his whole body where his legs were brushing Yaniv's, the movement of the chain. "I think you just like Mirans," he said. "Why do you think that is?"

"I don't know," Yaniv said. 

"You can think about it while I fuck you," Rhahat said, pressing his thumb against Yaniv's hole, not inside, but just enough for Yaniv to feel the pressure. "The first thing that's ever going inside you is my cock. Not my fingers, not my tongue — you'll always know the first thing to fuck you was my cock." 

Yaniv groaned against his arm, barely holding back from coming by clenching his thighs and moving his hand as slowly as possible.

"Do you want that?" Rhahat said sharply. "Do you think you can handle it?"

"Yes," Yaniv said. Rhahat reached between his legs and knocked his hand away from his cock. He groaned. 

"Then you'll come on my cock," Rhahat said. 

An unfamiliar sound — something cool and slippery slid down over his hole and he could smell something herbed — oil from Rhahat's pouch. He let out a shuddering breath as Rhahat pushed up onto his knees again, one hand braced hard on Yaniv's hip, the other lining up the blunt head of his cock against Yaniv's hole, the pressure soft at first. He tried to relax, but his breath was high and thin in his throat, his fingers clenching against the ground as it intensified. It hurt and didn't at the same time — no, it _hurt_, but it was a good hurt, because it came from Rhahat. 

The stretch was becoming unbearable — no, it _was _bearable, because he could both hear and feel how it was affecting Rhahat, the short puffs of his breath as Yaniv's body began to yield to him, his hands gripping bruises into Yaniv's hips. The slowness as the head of his cock began to push inside became excruciating, the stretch deep, satisfying and painful at the same time, Rhahat's nails digging into his skin. For all his talking, Rhahat was silent now, apart from the fast gasps of his breath timed with little hitches of his hips. 

Just when Yaniv thought he was adjusting to it, beginning to find a spark of pleasure in the movement, Rhahat inhaled sharply, his grip loosening on Yaniv's hips. The bond shut off, suddenly enough that Yaniv flinched at a return to that yawning emptiness, as if Rhahat had ripped himself away physically, leaving him cold and alone. The poisonous cruelty was better than that. 

He began to shiver, Rhahat's fingers just brushing on his skin, the head of his cock pressing up against something inside Yaniv that forced a broken moan from his chest, an insistent pressure that pushed precome out of his cock, to pool on the ground below him. 

Slowly, the bond began to open again, but it felt wounded, bruised. 

"Yaniv?" Rhahat said, sliding his hands over Yaniv's back, reaching forward to identify him by touch. "Yaniv?" 

"Don't stop," Yaniv gasped out, wet and choked. Rhahat's hips moved as he reached forward and then back, one hand reaching down to trail across Yaniv's ass, making him gasp, squeezing around Rhahat's cock. It felt huge and hot within him, the stretch more than he could bear. "Please — don't stop."

"I — " Rhahat gasped, pushing forward again, the agonising slide jarring Yaniv into a moan he bit off against his arm. "I wanted — I thought I'd see your face when we fucked."

He was speaking Jehan again, the words sounding foreign and wrong. 

"You had other ideas," Yaniv said, bracing himself against the link, the phantom touches rolling over him, phantom images, every time Rhahat had thought of him, _really_ thought of him, the strength of his hands and wrists, the cut of his hips, the smell of fresh sweat and the steady thump of his heart through the bond whenever he was deep in thought. Yaniv swallowed, blinded by memories of his own face, the echo of his pain when Rhahat had first bitten him, the small, anguished sounds he made when Rhahat _knew_ Yaniv was on the precipice of tipping into pleasure but denying himself. He recognised that sound; he could taste it in his mouth now. 

Rhahat's finger traced the rim of Yaniv's hole where his cock was breaching in, and he hummed. Every slight movement he made drove it in deeper, pushed it harder against where Yaniv was most sensitive. Yaniv’s mouth was wet — he couldn't breathe. Rhahat scraped his blunt nail across Yaniv's ass and he gasped, cried out. 

"I have good ideas," Rhahat said, softly, and Yaniv could feel his satisfaction beginning to unfurl down the bond, and the idea that Yaniv had pleased him made his throat go tight. The bite mark on his arm where he had been worrying at the skin was turning dark, every muffled moan and stifled cry extracting a price. 

Rhahat leaned forward until Yaniv could feel the movement of his breath on the nape of his neck. Rhahat kissed the back of his neck, slowly, letting his tongue roll across the salt-sweaty skin there. 

"Please," Yaniv said. 

"Please what," Rhahat said, speaking the words directly against Yaniv's skin. He reached under Yaniv's body and touched his cock; it jumped in his hand, but the touch was perfunctory and all too brief. 

Instead, Rhahat's fingers moved up Yaniv’s stomach, feeling the tightness of his muscles, finally landing at one of his nipples. He gave it a vicious twist and pushed his cock in to the hilt at the same time. His hips pressed sharply into Yaniv's ass, reigniting the flames that were burning beneath his skin. The chain was so bright Yaniv could see it with his eyes closed. 

"Is that what you wanted?" Rhahat hissed. He began to thrust, in a motion so shallow that it was more like a rocking back and forth, not at all what Yaniv craved — what he was beginning to think he needed. 

"No," he choked out.

"No?" Rhahat said, hips stilling. 

"Yes — no — " 

"_I _know what you want," Rhahat said, reaching back up to Yaniv's hips and gripping them again, each finger overlaying a previous bruise. He began a punishing rhythm that knocked all thoughts from Yaniv's mind, replacing them with bruising pleasure as Rhahat thrust harder and harder into him, his hips knocking against Yaniv's ass until he could feel nothing but the sting of skin on skin, his knees abraded on the rock — all of it faded beyond the roar of satisfaction in his ears, his hole feeling sore and swollen and _open_, his body a vessel for Rhahat's pleasure. 

He tried pushing back against the thrusts, tried squeezing, eliciting a punched-out gasp from Rhahat. He wanted to make it good - like he didn't deserve the way Rhahat's cock was hitting inside him, the jolting pleasure running up and down his whole body, his thighs clenching hard, not without giving something in return. 

Rhahat hunched over — the warmth of his body colliding with Yaniv's was the only warning — and bit him on the back, hard and fast enough that Yaniv yelped and flinched, Rhahat’s jagged teeth slicing deep into his flesh — and Yaniv was coming, just from that, his balls drawn up tight against his body, shooting come in a wave that felt like it would never end, until it was done and he was gasping, the last of it being pushed out by Rhahat's cock, still fucking him relentlessly. His hands were scraping on the rock, fingers numb and abraded against the cold rock. His wrist was throbbing in time with Rhahat's thrusts, the cuff so hot he thought he ought to be smelling burning flesh. 

Rhahat's satisfaction was at its peak; he could tell even without the bond, Rhahat’s grasping fingers trembling and harsh, his thrusts stuttering, his moans rough and breathless. Yaniv could do nothing but try to be good, his knees skidding forward, the slap of Rhahat's body against his making his skin burn. 

Rhahat stopped and began to pull out. "No," Yaniv gasped, and Rhahat stilled. He saw through the bond what Rhahat was thinking, come striping across Yaniv's red ass, and it made his tired cock twitch, but it wasn't what he _needed_. "You have to — "

"Don't tell me — "

"Inside," Yaniv said, and it came out like a hitched sob. "_Please_." 

"I — Mirans don't — "

Yaniv unleashed a wave of need down the bond, eyes closed, reaching for the chain that he couldn't find. He wrapped his fingers around his wrist and _drove_ the need down the bond until he felt Rhahat start coming, the heat and wetness inside, Rhahat's surprise as he collapsed down on top of Yaniv from the force of it, trembling, his hands grasping for any purchase on Yaniv's skin, still coming until Yaniv felt _full_, like he might overflow, feeling open and wet. Rhahat pushed his head down against Yaniv's back, muffling his moans in Yaniv's skin until he was quiet and still, only the soft push of his breath and the bond letting Yaniv know he was conscious.

It was a good few minutes before Rhahat moved again, sighing a soft sigh as he pulled free of Yaniv's body. Yaniv flushed, full-bodied, as he felt the wet trickle of come follow, Rhahat tracing it back up its path and pushing it back inside, his fingers lingering on the rim. 

Yaniv's heart was returning to its normal beat; he rested his hot face against the cool stone below, each bruise on his body coming to life with a slow throb. He rolled over, slowly, wincing as his ass made contact with the cold stone below, the bite on his back flaring. Rhahat looked down at him and the intensity of his gaze made him shiver, but instead of speaking he reached over and curled his hand around Yaniv's ankle, the warmth of his skin anchoring him. The bond was full and strong, its heat coursing through his veins. 

Rhahat sighed, wistful, and Yaniv sat, secretly relishing in the pain, until he could reach for his clothing, the soft sound of the wind outside in counterpart to how hard his heart was beating. They dressed without speaking, Yaniv shrugging back into his coat as Rhahat wrapped his cloak around his shoulders, looking down and away. Yaniv stood, and it felt wrong, misaligned from his body. Rhahat turned, but Yaniv moved away before he could look up. 

"What _was_ that?" Yaniv said. "Is that what you — "

"I — " Rhahat said, and then stopped himself suddenly. "One of the officers liked me to — be in charge." He frowned. "I've forgotten — I can see his face, but I've forgotten his name."

"You — "

"Don't be confused," Rhahat said, low, eyes meeting Yaniv's. "Anything with you is done by _me_."

The air crackled between them, Rhahat's gaze both impossible to bear and difficult to break away from. "Gotta piss," Yaniv grunted, wrenching his eyes away and drifting away towards the mouth of the cave, barely noticing Rhahat's murmured assent. He was boot deep in the snow before he heard Rhahat's shocked inhale and turned to see him still sitting, hands splayed in the cup of his lap. He stood, coltish, unsteady on his legs, and walked past Yaniv, hands raised to test the air. Yaniv watched him go, snow landing in his dark hair, cloak trailing on the ground. 

Rhahat took another step — he was now the furthest from Yaniv he had been since that first night — skidding down the banks of the lake and out onto the ice, stumbling and sliding across the slick surface. The dark ice reflected the stars, Rhahat standing on the edge and reaching his hands to the sky, catching snowflakes on his tongue. 

Yaniv could hear his distant laughter carried on the wind, the bond growing thinner with distant but still _there_, even with no chain rattling around his wrist. He encircled his wrist with his hand and the bond grew stronger, Rhahat's joy overwhelming and full. 

There was nothing on his arm to show that the cuff had been there — no, when he held it up to the moonlight, there was a faint silvery ring under his skin, like a long-healed scar. Rhahat was coming back when Yaniv glanced up, his smile fading and being replaced by consternation. 

"What happened?" Yaniv said. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Rhahat said, pushing his snow-damp hair back from his face. "What did you do?"

"I mean — it's gone."

"I can see that," Rhahat said, tart, touching lightly where the cuff had been around his wrist. It felt even stranger looking at Rhahat's naked wrist, the band of scar looking softer and less angry than before, the silver thread running through it. "If I'd known I could do that, I would have," he said. Yaniv believed him. 

"You lied to me," he said. "About everything."

"Not about that," Rhahat said. 

"Why?"

Rhahat sighed and crouched down at the mouth of the cave, fingers pushing into the powdery snow that had collected there. "If I'd known you were you, I wouldn't have healed you. I thought you were a Miran officer." 

"I know," Yaniv said, and thought about dying there on the battlefield, hot blood soaking into the earth, Rhahat stepping over him and continuing on. But that wasn’t real — he had the bruises and the bites to prove it, their slow pain underneath his clothes a reminder. "I've always known that. You let me believe I was helping Jehan."

Rhahat sighed again. Yaniv gritted his teeth, letting the silence do its work. 

"I would have done the same thing to Adros — the officer I thought you were."

"You would have told him he could save Jehan?"

Rhahat chuckled, then cut it off. "No — I was thinking on my feet. He would have read the letter and obeyed." 

"Did you always intend to kill him?" Yaniv said, the words falling from his mouth like stones. 

"Yes," Rhahat said. "I would have done that no matter who I'd been linked to."

"Then you'd be here with Adros instead."

"I doubt that," Rhahat said. His gaze was fixed out into the night. "I never planned for being here."

"You used Jehan against me," Yaniv said.

"Yes, I did," Rhahat said. "Are you angry?"

"Can't you tell?" 

Rhahat looked up, a little startled, and touched his wrist. Only then could Yaniv feel his emotions, but even when Rhahat let go he was still _there_, unquestionably. Not like being chained to a corpse at all. 

"I can't," Rhahat said. "But I think I'd ask anyway. Are you?"

"Yes," Yaniv said, and he crouched, the fabric of his trousers pulling tight against his ass and making him hiss. "No."

"When I was linked to someone else, he lent me to Corentin," Rhahat said, gaze fixed out into the night, his fingers crooked into the snow, the tips turning pale and blue. "That was when I started thinking." 

Yaniv ran his fingers over his scars, letting the familiar feeling ground him. He bit down on the tip of his tongue. "You could have told me."

Rhahat laughed. "Ah, I'm sure — come with me to assassinate a Miran officer."

"Yes," Yaniv said. 

"Don't be stupid," Rhahat said. "I didn't know you — I probably still don't."

"I would have — "

Rhahat turned, meeting Yaniv's eyes. "You don't _know_ that. You're saying that because — you're saying that because you think we know each other. You thought I was a spy."

"I figured once you started fucking me you might consider me trustworthy," Yaniv said. Rhahat narrowed his eyes.

"I don't know if you've really thought about what this has meant for me," Rhahat said, his voice angry and raw. "But I don't exactly consider everyone I've fucked to be trustworthy."

"How can Mira do that to a person?" Yaniv said. 

"Don't," Rhahat said, eyes blazing. "Don't — "

"You have just as much reason to hate them as I do — more."

Rhahat leapt to his feet, his accent thick and words fast enough that Yaniv had to struggle to understand him. "Don't you _dare_ speak of things you don't understand."

"But they — "

"I _am_ one of them!" Rhahat shouted. "There's no 'them' for me. If you would see every Miran burn, you'd be burning me first!"

"You — "

"I love Mira," Rhahat said. "You can choose to believe me or not as you will, but I know who I am. I am Mira's son." 

"I don't understand — I can't understand that," Yaniv said. 

"Mira gave me purpose," Rhahat said. "Think about it for one damn second. Think about what _you _would do if Jehan was suffering — if every single Jehan couldn't hunt and you were the only one that could, what would you give up for them? Is there a single part of yourself you wouldn't sacrifice?"

"I — "

"You don't have to answer, because I know you would," Rhahat said. Angry tears gleamed in his eyes before he blinked them back. "We're the same, in that respect. You wouldn't hesitate." 

"I wouldn't," Yaniv said. 

"If there was anything you could do to save Jehan, wouldn't you be doing it?" Rhahat said. "Or would you just let everyone starve and die?"

"But they — they weren't using you to save Mira," Yaniv said.

"_Don't you think I know that_?" Rhahat covered his face with his hands, pressing hard. "If I didn't know that, I'd be standing by Corentin's side right now, letting him tell me I was saving Mira — that they plucked me from the capital's streets and saved my life and I had to help Mira in return. But I'm not. I'm here with you." 

Yaniv swallowed, pity closing his throat. He wanted to reach out and hold Rhahat, but he didn't know how — didn't know if he'd be shaken off.

"Don't you dare pity me," Rhahat said, raising his head. His eyes were narrowed with displeasure. "Or apologise to me — don't even think of apologising to me. I should be the one apologising to you." He looked up, met Yaniv's eyes, and then looked away, his gaze fixed on some point far in the distance. "It's — it's been a long time since I've cared to think of someone other than myself." 

He pushed his damp hair back from his face, looking younger and more vulnerable than Yaniv had ever seen him, his hand sneaking down to touch the scar on his wrist, fingers stuttering on the link. Yaniv’s gaze followed where the chain would be, running all the way up to his own arm. He was _free_, finally. It was all he had wished for, but the triumph was bittersweet. Every time he had wished to be free he had wanted it for Jehan.

"There is something I could be doing," Yaniv said. Rhahat raised his head. "There is something I could be doing to save Jehan. And I'm not doing it."

"What," Rhahat said, turning towards him. 

"Stopping Mira," he said. He anticipated Rhahat's exhausted sigh through his nose. "I don't mean to fight, but you're right."

"It worked out so well for me," Rhahat murmured. 

"But you understand the urge," Yaniv said. 

"I do," Rhahat said. 

Rhahat was right, Yaniv thought, feeling restless in his limbs. He was the only Jehan that knew Mira was in the highlands, let alone what they were planning. The king might have signed the treaty, but he didn't know Yaniv existed. 

There _was_ something he could be doing for Jehan. Let the army protect the border from Kur. Someone needed to protect the inside, too. 

Yaniv took a deep breath, and they sat there together for a few moments, sound dampened by the snow that gleamed in the moonlight, marred only by Rhahat's excited footprints. Yaniv touched the bond and felt the war inside Rhahat, the anger quelling, but jagged, raw, like he was trying to pinch a wound closed. There was something deeper — something directed towards him that he couldn't name, but it had a depth that startled him into shaking his fingers free of the bond. 

"Come here," Rhahat said, extending his bonded hand. Yaniv moved closer and Rhahat reached forward and took his hand. A shock passed through him and he jumped, reminded of when he had first put knife to chain. 

Rhahat moved his hand further, the soft brush of his skin raising goosebumps on Yaniv's arms, until the bond marks were pressed together, the harsh noise that jangled at the back of Yaniv's mouth turning into a sweet singing. He shivered, feeling his heart redouble its pulse, but whether it was from the bond or the heat of Rhahat's body, he wasn't sure. 

Rhahat leaned up and kissed him, hand gripping onto Yaniv's forearm, his lips warm and soft, his tongue inquisitive and wet as he pressed their bodies together, sliding into Yaniv's mouth with a fierce possessiveness, crowding him back until Yaniv hit the cave wall, pinned there by nothing more than the kiss and Rhahat's firm grip on his arm. Rhahat broke the kiss with a sigh, leaning his head against Yaniv's chest, then turning himself so he could lean against Yaniv, encircled by his arms. It reminded him of that first night, when they had to clutch at each other for warmth. 

Rhahat was wriggling now — trying to find something in his pocket. He struck a match on the rock and lit a cigarette, the flare of light bright and then extinguished. The familiar, heady scent took a few seconds to reach Yaniv's nose.

"That's mine," he said, stupidly, finding empty pockets on both sides — he couldn't remember when he'd last had them. 

"I know," Rhahat said, reaching behind to pass it back. They smoked in silence for a few moments, Yaniv caught between the soothing warmth of Rhahat's body and the increasing pain of sitting. He didn't want to move away from Rhahat, and so his thoughts drifted, distracting him from the pain. 

All he would need would be five — maybe ten likeminded Jehans. If there was no Andela, the Mirans would be lost in the wilderness, unable to navigate, let alone survive the harsh winter. 

"What are you thinking?" Rhahat said. His voice was cracked with tiredness. 

"Military strategy," Yaniv said. Rhahat chuckled, quietly; Yaniv could feel it in the movement of his body. 

"As if I wasn't already falling asleep."

Even though they weren't bound together, Rhahat could be — there was a necessary place for him by Yaniv's side. He had more Miran intelligence in his head than anyone bar their spymaster, Yaniv thought, even though he liked to release it in fragments. That was — there was a practical reason for wanting that. 

"You could — "

"Don't," Rhahat said, too quickly. "Don't ask me that."

"You don't even — " 

"I do," Rhahat said, the words catching in his throat. "I do know what you're going to ask, and — please don't."

Yaniv's arms tightened around Rhahat, who sighed. "I thought you'd want to," Yaniv said. "I thought you wanted to see Jehan."

"I do," Rhahat said. "That's the problem. If you ask me to come with you to your village — to your _home_, I'll say yes. And I can't. I can't come with you." 

"Why," Yaniv said, stomach clenching. "Why not?"

"Mira needs me," Rhahat said, and, sensing Yaniv's immediate thoughts, "and not like in the past. Something has happened to Mira. Something's happening to me. I have to find out what it is." 

Yaniv closed his eyes, just for the briefest second, and reined in what he was feeling. He had no right to tell Rhahat what to do, not when they wanted the same thing. That was that, then. 

Would the bond fade based on distance? Or would time itself just erode it down to nothingness? He closed his hand around his wrist and Rhahat imitated him without thinking, hissing when he touched the bond, feeling the bruises on Yaniv's body. "I forgot," he said. "I can — "

"No," Yaniv said, too quickly, reaching out to catch Rhahat's questing hand. "No. I — " he tripped stupidly over words, flushing. "I like it."

"Carving competition," Rhahat said, suddenly, sitting up straight in the circle of Yaniv's arms. "You won a carving competition." He twisted around and reached out a single finger, stroking across the scar on Yaniv's cheek. 

"I — you remember?"

"It's coming back," Rhahat said, fingers trailing over Yaniv's blank skin. "Where would the scar for me go?"

"There," Yaniv said, and Rhahat went still. 

"I was joking," he said, brow furrowing. "You're really — " 

"It's a record," Yaniv said. "And it happened, didn't it?"

"It — what will it look like?"

"I don't know," he said. "It's — it wouldn't be a standard scar. You could just come and see it get done."

Rhahat frowned. "You're going right back, then."

"There's still a war," Yaniv said. "There's still Kur. Although, if what you've said is true, it'll probably be a short one."

"Don't joke," Rhahat said, jabbing an elbow back none too softly. Yaniv could feel his fear just from the quickening of his breath — he truly believed in the Kur god, even if he played it off. The fear bled into Yaniv's mind, imagining divine fire raining down the mountains, Kur rising up like a wave high enough to block out the sun. 

"I have to carry the message to the Jehan army," Yaniv said. 

"And after that?" 

"Fight," Yaniv said. The beginning of war drums pulsed in time with his heart. "Fight for Jehan."

"Against Mira, too," Rhahat said, miserably. "You'll never win." 

"I know," Yaniv said. 

"You _know_?"

"How could I not?" 

"Promise me we'll never cross swords," Rhahat said, lips pressed thin together. 

"Jehan and Mira?"

"You and me," Rhahat said. 

"I don't think it would be much of a fair fight." 

Rhahat sighed, but he took the cigarette back from Yaniv's idle hand and they sat there for a long while, bonds pressed together. There was no need to speak; they shared the silence and waited for the sun to rise. The rhythm of Rhahat's breaths slightly moving his body gave Yaniv peace that was shattered every time he thought about parting. 

He spent the night trying to commit the details of Rhahat to memory: the scent of his hair, the softness of the nape of his neck, where his hair faded into down and then nothing at all. The particular grey of his eyes, especially when he was angry, the secret strength and deep weariness he carried in his body. How long would it be before he would see Rhahat again, he wondered. Months — years? At least until he could get his scar, he needed his memory to be whole, complete. 

And until then, he had the marks that Rhahat had given him, the bite on his back throbbing, the bruises clamouring for his attention. They would fade too, soon enough. He wondered if Rhahat could heal the mark on his back just enough to make it scar. The earrings, too — he had almost forgotten about them. One of them could be spared, surely. Someone would know how to pierce his ear.

His feelings flowed freely into the bond; he didn't want to shield them. Rhahat's thoughts were the same. 

False dawn permeated their shared reverie too soon, thin shafts of weak sunlight broken by the trees and mountains, bringing the snow and lake to life with a gold shine. Yaniv hated it for its beauty, and how it forced him to think of the long journey ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaniv and Rhahat journey to the Miran camp. Rhahat shuts down mentally on their approach. It is revealed that he has been chained to Miran officers to provide them with healing who use him for sex to fuel the bond and enable the healing. He is dehumanised by these officers. 
> 
> The commander they seek to find believes he is entitled to Rhahat and attempts to take him from Yaniv. Yaniv is injured; Rhahat kills the commander and they escape.
> 
> Later, Rhahat's past persona comes to the fore and he and Yaniv have rough, consensual sex with impact play, knifeplay, and biting. Yaniv finds it enjoyable. Rhahat comes back to himself at the end.


End file.
